Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales
by mihairu7
Summary: The title explains it all, but for fun let's just say it's the Dark Soul's Take on the classic story of Cinderella. Beware for humour, massive arguments and sappy love of the middle-ages.
1. Chapter 1

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail and Scales**

**Chapter 1 – With Great Heritage Comes Greater Expectations **

* * *

Marriage. A word that scared the hopeful romantic of a prince to death faster than the North-Eastern guillotine to the neck. It wasn't that the heir of Ariamis, a snowy Kingdom to the North, was afraid of commitments; in fact, he prided himself on keeping to them. Why just the other day, he had made the commitment to eat more green herbs than his usual diet of meat, meat, and more meat.

Many in the cold kingdom had argued that the prince simply avoided the topic of courtship due to not having a particular sexual preference to begin with, which was absurd in every way. His preference was - and always will be - the female population, although the fact that he hadn't spoken to a person of the opposite sex besides his handmaiden was completely irrelevant in this regard. What was important was the fact that he _had_ a preference.

The prince was not afraid of commitments, not one bit. The truth of the matter was that he instead feared the opposite sex, or to put it in simpler words, had never truly interacted with a woman in general to even _consider_ the idea of marriage. Everyone in the palace, the prince's father included, knew this to be true and yet here he was; begging on his knees for this age-old custom of arranged engagement to be re-thought - or just casually purged from any and all annals of the kingdom's history. He was just saying.

"Really, is it _really_ tradition to be so crassly set-up like this? Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends were married to people they didn't know or exactly like and they turned out fine-"

"Which is why _you_ will be doing the same, my son."

"-but just because it was good for the goose does NOT mean it'll be good for the gander, father!" Argon finished with what patience he could maintain in his voice and posture on his hands and knees. It was shameful for any member of nobility - monarchy included - to be submitting in such a pathetic manner but it wasn't like he really cared, this was his unbound life he was fighting for!

Imperious King Havel sighed for the umpteenth time today, his faithful Dragontooth club resting in his hand like a scepter fit for a caveman. His son might have disliked his style and taste, but he couldn't bother, he was too busy trying to force his son into an arranged marriage right now.

"Your stubbornness makes it harder and harder for me to properly explain the importance of this marriage you will be entering into."

"And your blatant refusal for a change of tradition makes it harder and harder for me to explain the importance of me living my own life!"

The King of Ariamis sighed tiredly and pinched the bridge of his nose as his son continued his ranting about how situations like this create 'systems of rebellion'. They had been going at this argument for over half an hour now, and neither party had backed down from their role of who was right and wrong. The two of them fought like this daily. It didn't matter whether it was over minted tea for breakfast or which club was the fairest between Havel's Dragontooth and Argon's Demon Hammer - it was definitely the Dragontooth if anyone in the kingdom cared to know - but the father and son naturally couldn't see eye-to-eye.

Havel had been quick to blame it on the boy's mother at first. The woman had a streak for always wanting to win any and all quarrels and had even gone as far as attempt to run him through with a lance the one time she had been wrong. However, when the heavy-set King thought of how his son had favored withdrawing from certain topics with people so as not to harm their pride or create strained relations - not to mention the boy's raw talent for battle strategy - he had agreed that quite a bit of himself was to blame for the heir's personality. He couldn't help it though, men of the Rock weren't used to being the submissive type.

"You can and _will_ engage the princess I have chosen for you and that is final! Now get up from that pathetic pose you use when trying to goad me into changing my mind. You spend too much time with that Shiva fellow from the East, honestly."

Argon groaned from his position on the carpeted floor and stood up, patting down his apparel with a sulk prominent on his face. _'Great',_ Havel thought as he woke his royal guard from the nap he had been having whilst he fought with his son, _'there starts the sulking... and in a few short moments the complaining will be sure to follow.'_

The King watched his son as his face turned from sour, to pensive, to excited, and back to sour again. He sighed again and waited patiently for the explosion to occur, what shenanigans would his problematic heir begin now? Argon prepared to psyche himself up and Havel counted down the final grains of sand in his head.

_'Three... two... one... Annand.'_

"I don't understand why you're always to pushy all the time, old man," the heir began. His usually pale face was red with emotion and his mouth had decided to go into that never-ending monologue of not shutting up that it was famous for again. "I mean when have I ever disobeyed any order you've ever given-"

"You disobeyed my order not to come into the throne room to ask me to change my mind."

"-When have I ever disobeyed any order, you've given me _not_ regarding my relationship status." Argon corrected, making his father raise an eyebrow in thought before nodding in agreement. It was true, Argon had never really gone against his wishes in any significant manner. In fact, the prince only complained like a quarrelsome wife when he made decisions behind his back about said prince. "And besides, why do I have to be married _now_ of all times? I'm only twenty-three dammit!"

"Gaining a treaty with the Kingdom of Izalith would boost not only our standing as a small country in the snow, but also improve the prosperity of the people and strengthen our army if need for war ever arises, Lloyd forbid."

Argon gasped dramatically and placed a hand over his heart in mock-hurt. Well actually, with the uncharacteristic personality he possessed, Havel wouldn't be surprised if he were really upset about what he had just said.

"Are you saying that the only reason you're forcing me to end my single life is for the sake of this kingdom instead of my _happiness_?"

Havel thought for a moment before nodding firmly, "Yes, pretty much."

"Oh, you selfish sack of simple stones, how could you tell the truth so easily like that?!"

"Watch your mouth, boy," Argon's father warned and pointed the rounded end of his Dragontooth at him like some judge of morality. "this is the only method to securely bridge our nation's together without having to deplete our valuable resources in exchange. Unless you have a better idea, I suggest you put a patch of blood-red moss in that forward mouth of yours."

"Well of _course_ I have a better idea," The prince sang in a high-pitched voice that grated annoyingly against Havel's ears. For once during their argument, the King's eyes widened in surprise, the boy really had another solution to settle into a treaty with the Kingdom of Chaos Fire without costing himself his single-life and Havel his army? He was about to commend his son on his diligence when Argon chose that moment to open his annoying mouth.

"Have Lithecore do it."

The King deadpanned his son. "Did you _honestly_ just say that, Argon?"

"Why, is he a bad candidate?"

"Lithecore is your twin brother."

"Which is **exactly** why it'll work!"

"And as far as we both know; your brother not only shows a dislike to both men and women but is also the polar opposite of you."

"So, what?"

"He'd spark a war between our kingdom's by comparing Izalith's kingdom a stain on the floor, in the Queen's face just for the fun of it!"

"That _is_ something he'd do... guess he doesn't like arid places much."

"HE DOESN'T LIKE ANY PLACE THAT MUCH YOU IDIOT!"

A tick mark grew on the Imperious King's forehead. His own heir had fooled him into thinking he actually had a concrete plan. Havel's royal guard snickered behind the sleeve of his alabaster uniform as the King looked up to the domed ceiling of his throne room and sighed in exasperation. He needed to end this non-sensical conversation between the two of them, and fast. He was far too old to be bickering like a child with an _actual_ child.

Havel pinched the bridge of his nose again to calm himself. One last attempt to sway his wayward son's mind was all he could manage right now.

"Just... tell me why you don't wish to marry one of the princesses of Izalith. You do know there are six of them to choose from, after all."

Argon looked at his father and exhaled all the air from his lungs. When he took his sweet time to inhale, the King was just about ready to smash him into the floor, whether it was his son before him or not.

"Don't get me wrong, the daughters of Izalith are magnificent beauties to behold and I'm certain at least half of them would look my way with genuine affection for me," he began, and Havel opened his mouth to speak. If the boy knew he was catch and that _three_ out of six of those women would fall for him then why the hell was he so against the idea of marriage already?! Were the rumor's true about him having a deeper love for men?

"However, from what interaction I've had with each individual daughter and what valuable information I've gathered from reliable sources; I can boldly say..."

Havel and his guard leaned forward in anticipation, when his usually care-free son adopted the attitude of a commanding officer, it was a wise decision to listen rather than interrupt him. Besides, this information he gathered on all six daughters of the Izalith Witch would be solid ammunition should they ever have to go to war. The excitement began to bubble inside the old King's chest as the suspense grew. This was going to be good, he just knew it!

Argon breathed in deeply again before continuing, "Two of the sister's that spend every waking minute together bide their time trading gossip and stories with their mother like ticks on a mangey dog. They don't possess any practical form of intelligence within them besides the natural affinity for Chaos Pyromancy that any guardian in Ariamis could learn in a mere day. The lone sister that I honestly couldn't give a damn what her name was acts as some chunibyo-infected teenager outside of her mother's door with a staff and cloak and can't even carry a proper conversation without shouting the words 'I must say' after every sentence.

"I would have been just fine with settling for Queelan for her gentle nature, lovely silver hair and the fact that she's so cute I could literally rock her to sleep against my chest, but unfortunately she has a tomboy-ish drake for a sister with black hair and a massive sister-complex that almost burnt my hand off with that ugly pet spider of hers for the simple act of hugging a definitely blushing Quelaan. Lastly, but not lastly, there's Quelana. She's a fine young lady with a soothing voice that's certainly the smartest out of the six due to her mastery in Pyromancy and knowledge; however, since she and I are just friends _and_ that Laurentius, my best friend, is in love with her, she is not eligible to be my betrothed." Argon finished with a gasp for air. That detailed explanation had been the most he had spoken in quite a while and to be honest, it had felt pretty good.

His father, on the other hand, stared in utter disbelief. The royal guard simply shook his head in disappointment and reclined in his seat next to the King. Havel's son, one of the heirs to the Kingdom of Ariamis, the country in the snow that housed the famous Undead Asylum, had just shot down every single one of the six eligible bachelorettes for him to choose without batting an eye. Truthfully half of the Imperious King wanted to slap his son on the back for being a mountain of witty remarks and skillful deduction. The other half wanted to strangle the boy until he turned blue, make him revive at a nearby bonfire, and strangle him again until he let go of his sheer stupidity.

"Well, do you understand me now, father?" Havel's flabbergasted face turned to his son that was staring at him expectantly. Oh, yes... he understood. In fact, it was a shame that the King understood a little _too_ well. His understanding was so vast that he rose from his throne to return an answer.

"YOU PICKY LITTLE BRAT! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I CAVE YOU INTO THE VERY STATUE OF VELKA YOU MADE AS A PRESENT FOR THE GODDESS WHEN SHE VISITED HERE!"

"Wha?!" Argon stuttered in confusion, this had certainly turned out differently from what he was expecting. "But I thought you understood?"

"I understand that the next words to come out of your mouth will earn you a first-class ride into the Abyss if you don't get your act together, choose a suitable bride-to-be and initiate this damn treaty! Now turn tail and BUGGER OFF!" Havel shouted at him, punctuating his words with a good boot to his son's behind that sent him flying out of the room with a loud wail, followed by a crash as the throne room doors shut behind him.

The Imperious King sighed for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day, looking at his royal guard and trusted friend with tired eyes as he sat back down next to him and gripped his Dragontooth to cool off his frayed nerves.

It wasn't like he wanted to sell his son to the strongest country, he _did_ have a heart that was made of flesh, contrary to his moniker as it was. He wanted to see both his boy's living happily with wives that would fill the void he would leave when it was his time to leave this world. However, the fact that one son seemed to hate everything and the other was so popular but picky to the toenails was like an anvil atop his shoulders. He would usually be able to carry it without panting once, but when it felt like it was crafted from Astorian Titanite and being hammered against with each new scrap of nonsense Argon would throw his way, he honestly doubted his worth as both a father and a ruler.

"Oh Carmella, how I wish you were here to tap some sense into both of our son's foolish heads."

* * *

"Ha- _achoo_!"

"Why, Lloyd bless you dear brother."

"Thank you. I think I'm beginning to _catch cold_ so far above ground level."

Argon patted his twin brother on the shoulder with a knowing smile gracing his face. While it was true that he and Lithecore had been born on the same day, at the same moment, with a few minutes in difference, the more optimistic of the two had always had more of a resistance to the common cold. Actually; he had more of a resistance to any sort of cold possible. The young man was like a portable furnace, able to melt ice and defrost a frozen body within record time by simply touching them.

Lithecore, the eldest of the two by three minutes, had always been envious of his younger sibling for that trait but never jealous. The second heir was his life and treasure, something he would do anything to see happy and smiling. It was true that Lithecore had an aversion to many, _many things _and that most of the kingdom saw him as unapproachable due to this. He didn't mind it, however, and instead rejoiced in the fact that his solitude was his source of entertainment. Although his father listed his complaints about it on parchment a mile long and always compared him to his extraverted twin, the older son of the Imperious King remained unperturbed. He was aware that his personality wasn't desirable, he just didn't care, that was what Argon was for anyways. As far as Lithecore was concerned he was happy being a silhouette in his brother's periphery. It gave him more time to enjoy his life and take his time to find a decent enough woman to bear his brooding nature.

"Seriously, what am I going to do?" the paler of the two suddenly remembered why exactly he was sitting outside in the snow, battling the seasonal wind when he could be resting comfortably inside one of the castle's heated rooms. "He wants me to pick one of the Izalith Sister's, dammit, the _Izalith Sister's_."

"When you do _that_ it feels like you're _insulting_ me."

"Oh, sorry." Argon sheepishly apologized and scratched the back of his head. "I forgot you like to emphasize certain words when you speak."

Lithecore drummed his fingers against the side of the wall and hummed, rubbing his arm with the other hand to alleviate the goose bumps he had. Could they not have taken this conversation somewhere warmer? Like maybe, oh he didn't know, not on top of the damn cathedral roof?! The chilly air was literally biting into his feet and hands with unbridled fury and turning them paler that his sickly skin tone already was. Just what the hell did he do to deserve the wind's wrath? He didn't even spend much time outside!

"_Perhaps_ father see's this marriage as more than something to _politically_ stabilize Ariamis." He said, and Argon tilted his head to him in confusion. "He wants to form _lifelong_ peace with a stronger nation, yes, but he _also_ wants to see you settle _down._ What better way to ensure your _son's_ future than to marry him off to a respective family with _known_ integrity?"

The second prince thought about it for a moment before nodding in understanding. Lithecore sighed and sagged his shoulders. _Finally_, he could escape this sub-zero climate and retreat into the confines of a warm blanket and that tome on Life-drain he had been reading. He loved his brother but sometimes the man's logic was questionable. Why did he need to receive advice on top of a _Church_, in the middle of _Autumn_, when the air in Ariamis was _thinner_? They could have just spoken inside of his bedroom dammit.

"Well, that does make more sense, I guess… but the problem isn't the political advantage, it's the fact that I have to marry Quelaag."

Lithecore froze. His father was making Argon marry Izalith's most tomboyish princess with a love for gargantuan arachnids? Wait, didn't she also have a sister-complex for Quelaan? The first prince was beginning to understand the desperation of his younger brother. Who would happily marry a woman voted most likely to kill you in your sleep by pouring lava onto your unmentionables?

"Has father _already _made the decision for it to be _her_?" he asked in haste.

"He didn't specify that I had to be her but looking at all six sisters', the only eligible one would be Quelaag. It truly is a shame Quelana's already taken."

"Well that _is_ problematic." Lithecore mumbled and wrapped an arm around his brother who nearly recoiled in shock. His brother was **_never_ **affectionate to people, not even him.

"Uh, are you trying to console me?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, my body is freezing, you _idiot._ Why did we have to _climb_ a Church to talk this out? The cold is biting into me like _a_ _spear_ of agony, do you want me to _fall_ sick _and_ _die_? You know I can't handle the cold." Argon mumbled a quick apology as he and his shivering brother rose from their respective perches and descended from the roof. The second prince threw his cloak over Lithecore's shoulders as they trudged through the snow towards the castle.

His brother was right. Whilst the club-wielding King was known to act solely to benefit his country and citizen's, he also had the foresight to look after his own kin. Marrying into the Izalith bloodline was a brilliant idea, that kingdom was a wealth of knowledge, power and riches. The Witch's daughters were beauties, nearly unrivalled save for a few countries. The turning point was that Ariamis and Izalith had known each other since the genesis of their civilization's. Argon and Lithecore had spent many years visiting the land of Chaos Fire, and the sisters' of Izalith vise-versa. Not to mention that if either of the Ariamis sons were to copulate with any of the six sister's and create a child, its genes and capabilities would surpass even that of the Old Gods'.

However, the act of arranging his marriage was absurd to the younger prince. He didn't care if it had been a custom since the Days of Gray Fog, he wouldn't be forced to marry a woman he was sure to be unhappy with 'till death did he part'. He was about to say something after they crossed the threshold of the main door about eloping with his handmaiden to annoy their father when realization hit him.

"Hey, were you just cursing me?"

"Unfortunately, I've been too busy _shivering_ to manage even _that_ guilty pleasure."

"No, I mean before we got off the roof." He looked at his twin brother that gave him a sideways glance before smirking impishly, a crooked smile marring his features.

"Why don't you… _explain_ your findings." He knew it, the man was trying to rile him up like he always did.

"If I put those words to you emphasized together, it spells out _'Idiot, climb a spear, fall and die'_."

"Well at least you've been practicing how to _decipher_ riddles better."

"So you _did_ just curse me a minute ago!" he shouted aloud, scaring the servant passing by in the hallway and pointing an accusing finger at his pale-faced twin.

"Next time don't take people to places that are illogical just to ask for advice."

Argon grumbled under his breath and watched his brother depart from him. He was bundled in both his and Argon's cloak to warm up his body and he almost resembled the Bloated-head soldiers from young prince's angle if he was a tad shorter. A smile graced his lips. No matter how much his brother was avoided by everyone in the kingdom, no matter how much Lithecore acted as if he resented the world and everyone in it, Argon couldn't help but draw closer to him. Honestly, his brother was a mess. His mind was fractured, and he perceived things in the complete opposite way Argon did. If the second heir could count the many times he and Lithecore had duked it out just to resolve a disagreement or endure the wrath of their father for sparking mass riot's in the castle, he would be able to cash in a tower of souls for all the wisdom his undead body could manage to hold. Nevertheless, he still loved his brother with all his heart. It was because of his brief words and insulting actions that pushed him forward, Lithecore was his everlasting rival, after all.

Argon resigned himself to his fate for the night and turned to walk in the opposite direction. He would leave tomorrow's problems to tomorrow's him. It was no use agonizing over something a month away when he had the time to plan accordingly and craft a masterplan so foolproof it would stun the Imperious King to silence.

"Then _again_," Argon immediately spun on his heel toward his brother's voice and found him standing a few meters away with a pensive look on his face. "perhaps you can create this treaty _without_ having to be forced into marriage."

The second heir's eyes glowed in the torchlight and a broad gin split his face.

"What? Really! How?!"

Lithecore turned his face to Argon and cupped his chin.

_'This is it!'_, Argon thought excitedly, _'Trust in Lithecore to find a solution to any problem. Oh, you've saved the day yet again! Why don't they make you the main character in this story since you have the best ideas?'_

"Fall in love with a princess on equal standing to Quelaag and marry her."

Argon froze in his tracks as his brother walked away muttering about how cold it was in the hallways despite the lit torches. That was what his beloved brother had come up with. A way to not forcefully marry but still forcefully marry despite the fact that he didn't _want_ to marry. They had found a solution by missing the original agenda by a long shot. He supposed he could make an exception and actually choose to settle down without needing to parade around as the resident playboy in Ariamis but what Lithecore had proposed was simply impossible!

_'Right… he's not the main character because he doesn't need to go through crap like this. That's my job…"_

"Just how the hell am I supposed to find a girl like that, huh?!" He shouted out to an empty hallway and sighed. He wished Solaire was here to boost his moral and help his dropping sense of optimism.

* * *

**(Somewhere near the quiet marketplace of Ariamis)**

A lone woman dressed in an ice-blue cloak breathed out a sigh as the blizzard in the lower district grew fiercer in the late hours of the night. She slid her emerald eyes towards a small child jumping into the arms of his father that had just returned from the work today brought and smiled warmly. Her bare feet created small indentations in the snow-covered cobblestone as she walked by that were smoothed over by the fluffy tail that protruded from the base of her spine.

She had needed to get away and the first place that had entered her mind was Ariamis, so she had dived through the portal set against the canvas of the portrait her grandfather owned without a care as to the people that would search for her that night. Why should she, when all they wanted was to treat her like an abomination? They all followed her father's example, after all. He hadn't given a damn about her after his so called 'experiment' had failed when she had been unable to produce more scales after the age of seven. At least her uncle had been kind enough to defend her from being pelted with stones when she was younger, but whether it was because he cared or because those stones would have dirtied the impeccable floors of Anor Londo, was a mystery to her. That golden mask of his and monotone voice that sounded more feminine than masculine always confused her.

The young lady exhaled slowly, watching the large puffs of warm air escape her lips with mild interest before she caught something in her periphery and turned towards an expansive corner of the royal castle. There was a figure standing by the window on the second floor that looked as if it was in agony. With her keen eyesight, her reptilian pupils zeroed in on the figure and discovered it to be a young man about her age grasping at his hair in turmoil. His pink lips were moving in rapid succession but there didn't seem to be anyone next to him to listen to his ramblings.

Her curiosity got the best of her and she approached the castle walls, lowering her hood and shaking her long silver hair in the process. The few scales she possessed at the back of her neck appeared from sight for a split-second before being hidden by a curtain of moonlight. She watched diligently as the man paced back and forth next to the window, his mouth open but not uttering a sound, the glass was too thick be able to hear anything and even if it were, she was far away from him to even get his attention.

Again, she smiled to herself. It seemed she wasn't the only one troubled by her current circumstances. She looked up to the sky and watched as the pure white snow fell. She paid attention to a large snowflake that fluttered down to her face before melting the moment it touched her nose. She scrunched up her face cutely and sneezed. When she looked back up towards the castle's window she saw the man turn his head her way. She froze. How had he heard her when she stood outside the inner wall? Had her sneeze been that loud or were the glass on those window's thinner than she had anticipated?

She was unable to reach a proper conclusion as the young man gave the wall she stood at a longer glance before shrugging his shoulders and walking away. The lady sighed in relief, her tail wagging gently behind her. She hadn't been spotted. She replaced her hood over her head and walked on towards a statue depicting the image of Velka and rested against it as more snow piled on her shoulders and around her. She was glad she was able to retreat to her favorite place in the world, where the snow never stopped falling and the people never discriminated you based on appearances. It was here and only here that she felt truly welcome, amongst the visiting Balder soldiers and conversing with the Astorian merchants that came to sell their wares on a daily basis.

Ariamis helped her to clear her thoughts, cast her burdens aside and prepare her for her next hurdle in life. Oh, and what a hurdle she would have to face when she returned to the city that never sleeps.

_Marriage._ A word so vile to her that it could turn the lilies in a flower-boy's basket brown. He was forcing her to marry into some country again. Of course, she had been able to get away with it before, but she feared that now he meant business. She just didn't understand why he cared after leaving her to her own devices for just over two decades. She would have been happy to live her life without ever gracing his noble presence again but the scaleless excuse for a father had to force her to be the turning point between another 'experimental' endeavor with the kingdom of Berenike.

Goddess Velka, her aunt, had mentioned finding a prince that she would be able to settle down with even if she were opposed to marriage. 'There's a pond full of them to choose from', the goddess had said before leaving but to a cross breed like her that had only ventured to three other countries in her life, the possibilities unfortunately weren't endless.

The woman sighed and clasped her hands together in prayer. "I hope I'm able to find such a suitor, dear aunt Velka."

* * *

**Please note: Argon and Lithecore are NOT actual brothers in Kingdom Come, the main story.**

**I decided to create a small Pisney (not to be confused with Disney for copyright reasons) fic. The title of this story says it all, so you can guess what the baseline is, ne? After watching a certain animation (*nudge* *nudge*), I decided to indulge my imagination a bit. This was the result.**

**I've modified a few things here and there to make it flow and I must say, it doesn't look too bad, really. Originally, I imagined it being something people might not enjoy but the opening lines immediately changed my mind. As you can see so far, Havel is the Imperious King of Ariamis and both Darkwraith and undead Argon are his son's. Since Argon and Havel get along so well – yeah right – in Kingdom Come, I made them actual family to enhance the comedy. Don't ask me why I called our super smash bro the 'Imperious King', I really wasn't thinking at the time.**

**Ariamis is an actual nation and its soldiers are all the enemies in the original painting, whilst the painting guardian's serve as the army in a general sense. Think of this as a break from the gory main story (ooh, that rhymed!). It's chock-full of comedy and what romance I'm capable of creating now.**

**Oh yes, if you're worried about me not posting new chapters of Kingdom Come in favor of my attention spent in this fic, don't fret. I don't intend on posting chapters of this story as frequently as Kingdom Come.**

**Please do R (are you there, ampersand? (*peers over shoulder)), I would love to hear your thoughts as well as any ideas you may have that I could include, if you so wished. Hope you all enjoyed this and stay blessed! Remember to sanitize your hands after doing any chore and throw your worn clothing in a separate clothing hamper when going outside. Coronavirus is transmitted via clothing and physical contact, so precautions should still be taken even if the risk of contracting it is low.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 2 – A Little Wine, A Little Fondling And We All Dance The Tango **

A fireplace crackled loudly in the study of the Imperious King's chamber as he stood watching the second heir to his throne being fitted for his formal attire. Havel's Dragontooth rested like a giant's walking stick against the clean carpeted floors as Argon was jerked from one side to the next by the tailor in a golden suit, ready to pommel him back into the chair the King had forbade him from leaving unoccupied.

Today was the day of a grand welcoming of Ariamis. Every kingdom, greater or lesser, would be welcome with their respective monarchy's and heirs to bear witness to the glory of the empire to the North. It was a day Havel had been waiting for with much excitement swelling in his muscled breast and was no surprise that he was acting like a Dragon Scholar on safari in the Great Swamp. His flourishing land would be seen by those from far and wide, gods would cast their gazes upon the snow-lands splendour and drink from chalices of beautiful silver and gold.

But what grasped the King of the Rock by the firebomb's more than the thousands that would visit his prospering people was the fact that his prized sons would _also_ happen to be on display. Argon and Lithecore had only come to hear of said news two moons before the event, which was the reason for Imperious King Havel's current presence with his second wayward son instead of making final arrangements with his royal guard in the ball room.

The King knew that many single princesses would be coming to Ariamis dressed in their finest in search of a suitable suitor. Although he had already promised Queen Izalith his second heir, that didn't mean he couldn't put the boy on display for all to ogle at both him and his elder brother of three minutes. Some would argue that such actions were below a King as noble as Havel. Havel, on the other hand, simply told whoever thought that to take a hike and let him manage his own children. What was the point of even having a pair of handsome identical twins if you couldn't use them in negotiations as mere flash cards?

"Uh, are you done measuring my shoulders yet?" Argon asked the tailor politely. "Sorry, its just that keeping my arms up for this long is tiring."

"Oh! Yes, by all means, Prince Argon but please… lower them slowly…" replied the tailor who was currently drooling behind said prince's back, whilst in front of the Imperious King himself. Argon merely sighed as he lowered his arms that were dressed in a thin cotton button-up.

"Now turn around, if you will." The prince did so and frowned when he saw the tailor wipe her mouth. He just wanted to finish up here, so he could prepare his mind and body to be feasted on by uptight princesses that would no doubt undress him with their eyes.

"Now take off your shirt."

"Wha? But I just did that twenty minutes ago."

"You did. It was lovel- I mean informative but I didn't manage to measure your waist properly. You kept squirming in my grip."

"That's because your _grip_ kept directing itself down towards my waistband."

"Oh my, did it? Please forgive me, Prince Argon." The tailor replied in mock sadness and the heir ate it up like the idiot he was.

"Ah, its totally okay! Don't worry about it!" he said gently holding the tailor by the shoulders, his face etched in worry when tears appeared in the corners of the woman's eye. She looked up at him innocently and batted her lashes, making the poor boy gulp.

"Are… you certain its not a problem?" she asked meekly, and Havel saw Argon nod his head vigorously.

"Yep! Its not your fault, like you said I was moving around too much. We'll just have to do the measurements for what you missed again is all."

The woman in the golden suit smiled brightly and Havel knew his son had just fallen for the trap most clever woman were known to weave on a whim. She had spunk, the King could give her that.

"Thank you, Prince Argon!"

"Not a problem. What measurements did you not get anyways?" he asked with a sigh. She couldn't be blamed, he was rather ticklish around the waist anyways. He supposed he owed it to her to at least see it through to the end.

"Well… if I had to be honest… it would be everything."

"You got every measurement wrong?!"

"Is… is that a p-problem?" she began to tear up again.

"No, no! Everything's fine, peachy in fact! Please don't cry, we'll do the measurements from scratch."

"Great! Now please also removed your trousers." The tailor cheered.

"Um… pardon me?"

"Don't worry, you may keep your undergarments on if you so wish."

"Oh, well that's a relief- Wait! Why don't you measure my upper body first since I just took my shirt off?"

"My, my, Prince Argon. Don't you know that a tailor must measure her client from the ankles up?"

"Seriously? I've never-"

"Your trousers, please!"

"Aw, but it's so damn cold!"

A smirk decorated Havel's bearded face and he walked out of the room quietly, shutting the door behind him before striding out towards the main hall. If the sly tailor could see the appeal his boy presented and chose to try her luck with the oblivious fellow in front of her majesty's own eyes, then those Kings and Queens with their desperate daughter's would flock to Argon and Lithecore like moths to a beautiful flame. The Imperious King was no fool, he knew how dashing his boys were, they had inherited his looks and their mother's heart, after all. Well… maybe not so much Lithecore regarding the latter but it was his looks that mattered for now.

He would flaunt them like his Dragontooth for the world to see, allow various collectors of fine art to bid as high as they could for just one of his boys and allow the visiting kingdoms to be enthralled in a rivalry to obtain an alliance with Ariamis. Then, when all was said and done, he would announce that the more boisterous of the two was officially off the market as off a day ago before clamping his teeth down on the fish that had swam into his net. It was the perfect plan to establish peaceful relations with the various lands out there, plus it would be a benefit to those lands to invest in the kingdom that could potentially imprison their undead monarchs should they fall under the curse of hollowing somehow. Who wouldn't see the Undead Asylum as a powerful bargaining chip?

Now, if only he could find the other half of the pair of brothers and make him receive a pat down without severing any heads in the process. Lithecore may have been his son but that didn't mean he was the perfect example of a child of the Rock. The boy had an aversion to people in general and hated physical contact from anyone save Havel himself, Argon and his handmaiden's that dressed him daily. Then again, the older of the two had always been one to prepare ahead of time. The King of Ariamis wouldn't be surprised if Lithecore had already altered his suit for the event in advance, he was a sharp one in delivering necessary expectations when the moment arose.

"My lord Havel." The King turned on his heel and found his royal guard approaching from the wing of the main hall, panting for breath with scrolls bundled in his arms.

"Ah, Absalom! I was beginning to wonder where you ran off to." He replied and waited for his right hand to fall into step beside him. "I trust the invitations have all been received in good order?"

"Yes, indeed, Sire. Every kingdom from East to West have given their word to attend this eve."

"Any word from the Great Swamp?" Havel asked as they turned the next corner, nodding to a bowing servant rushing to resupply the cellars with this year's harvest of Frostbite wine, a specialty of Ariamis sold by the barrel full for millions of souls at a time.

"While the head disciple's have given word of their visit, it seems that Salaman will not be among them when the time comes."

"He's still off on another adventure, is he? That is a shame." The King muttered. Salaman would have been the perfect ruler of the free worlds to enlist a treaty with Ariamis. While the world saw Pyromancy as a heretical theocracy that was born from Salaman's desire for power, the Great Swamp was chock-full of useful allies that could dissolve waring nations in an instant.

"King Richard will also be attending, my Lord." Said Absalom, opening a scroll coloured red from the many bundled in his arms for Havel to read.

"The squirt is of age now. At least he'll liven things up if our festivities fail to impress those brooding gods filled to the brim with jealousy." Absalom showed him another scroll and the Imperious King's wise eyes skimmed the text before replying, "Ah, yes… perfect attendance from the Way of White. If I were a lesser man, I'd pick on the fact that they visit my kingdom almost religiously despite the fact they banish their undead from their 'clean' cities."

"I've also received word from Master Logan."

"Vinheim's greatest graduate?" asked Havel in bemusement.

"Indeed, Sire. He, along with Astora have requested private negotiations over an alliance after the festivities have ended."

"Interesting."

The King and his right hand exited the corridors and into a circular chamber with a large dais carved from glittering amethyst. Havel hesitated for a moment before entering it with Absalom and stood on the disk jutting out of its centre. The porter to their left bowed at their arrival before pulling a crack set into the wall. The dais clinked to life as chains, cogs, wheels and axles turned in unison, elevating Havel and Absalom towards the upper floor slowly. Havel did his best to stand firm against the uncomfortable feeling and tightened the grip on his Dragontooth for reassurance. He had always hated enclosed spaces, circular towers and rooms due to him being claustrophobic. It was only because of his late wife that he had even agreed to allow the servants in the castle to build this contraption his sons loved more than he did. Sure, it was a way for everyone in the castle to move quickly and efficiently but just because they all adored it didn't mean he did as well.

"There is also… one more thing of importance to note, Lord Havel." The royal guard said before handing him a scroll decorated in white and gold.

"Oh?" Havel raised an eyebrow and took it from Absalom's hands. "Why not show this one to me while we were downstairs?"

"Because it is from Lordran, Sire." Havel turned his steely gaze at his right hand as the lift stopped at the Throne Room, juddering to a halt and rattling the clamps that locked the dais into place.

"More specifically, I was given word that it came from Anor Londo."

Havel turned the scroll around in his palm and noticed the bright, golden wax sealing the letter with the Ancient Lord's crest upon it. The crest of the Lord of Sunlight. Now this was getting interesting.

"How delightful," the Imperious King stated as he and his right hand sat in their respective seat's before opening the letter itself. "It seems King Gwyn desires to bring his entourage to our snow-capped palace."

Absalom raised an eyebrow in curiosity and traced a finger against the hilt of his painting dagger absently. So, Anor Londo wanted to revisit Ariamis after what seemed like almost millennia. It was just a shame cursed wounds didn't heal fast enough. A shame indeed…

"Well, send them word of our open armed welcome. It would be wise to play along with their charade until we discover any and all ulterior motives."

"Understood, my Lord."

* * *

As night fell, the country of Ariamis erupted into a spectrum of shadowed beauty, displaying the stars in small bursts of golden sparkles and the snow upon the ground like filigree on a maiden's Sunday best. The frozen lakes and plant life chilled to a crisp texture captured the calming mood of the land whilst the natives both young and old flocked around their foreign visitors excitedly like they were heroes returning from an ancient war. There was a feeling of euphoria in the air that lightened the many King's, Queen's, heir's and servant's that entered the capital under the beautifully decorated arches above them, crafted as if by the hands of a thousand miniature sculptors with the amount of detail etched into the dark oak.

As each visitor walked through the white city lit by floating balls of azure flame, their nostrils were greeted with the rich aroma of freshly cooked meat seasoned in spices and aged red wine. Across from the crystalized lake that shimmered like blue diamonds in the light, pairs of scarlet and royal blue drakes stood upright with their rider's breathing streams and sparks of gold into the sky. The clouds that hung over the iridescent full moon seemed to absorb the cold and usher in a jolly atmosphere as every visiting human, undead, god, goddess and creature was guided into the alabaster castle of Ariamis.

Havel smiled broadly as he stood on the second floor to witness throngs of different beings flood the vast space of the ball room. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the day he had anticipated and planned for ceaselessly for more than a few centuries. Every recognised nation, religion and race had accumulated under his marvellous banner. It didn't matter whether the Clerics were still at odds with the Duke of Carim or if the men of Catarina had had too much ale to sup before arriving here, it was a pure miracle and joy that everyone had actually come – not to mention on time for once, Havel was certain he had just accomplished a world record today.

Now, his dream of establishing peace and friendly relations with the powers at large would _finally_ come true. Since ancient times after the mishap between the Everlasting Dragons had occurred, Ariamis had not been in a position to announce their existence due to the frivolous mindset of people during the birth of the First Flame. Lord Ariamis, the founder of the snowy land, had fought with all his might to keep his home protected and invisible from the eyes of plunderers and greedy nobility that prowled the earth during that time. And so, the wise ruler and powerful artist had come up a solution to divert the world's attention from his home; the Undead Asylum.

But now, after the rise, fall and evolution of humankind and other species alike, after generations and eras had come and gone… the empire to the North was finally able to show itself to more than just a few acquaintances. Today marked the first time in the great annals that _every_ civilization had come to recognise the Imperious King's domain. There would no more need to lurk in the blizzards, maintain the wards and illusionary walls conjured up by his ancestor. Now, all Havel would need to do was govern this prosperous land like the benevolent King he was. It was a momentous occasion, so overwhelming that the proud man of the Rock nearly shed a tear or two; nearly.

He turned his gaze to Absalom who nodded for him to proceed after everyone of importance had settled down below him and the Imperious King cleared his throat loudly, preparing for the words he would say that would set his country's name forever in everlasting stone.

"**Welcome, all who have gathered here from the four corners of the world!**"

A chorus of cheers and whistles erupted from the ball room and Havel allowed another smiled to grace his lips. This was almost like a sweet dream he never wanted to wake up from. If only his wife, his father, his great ancestor could be here to see the unity of the world in one room, they would all truly break down in tears. Such was the emotions leaking from the clean suit the Imperious King wore.

"**While a select few have come to know this blessed land in the days of old, and others come to hear rumour of us from the Asylum we maintain, my people and I have treasured the peace and security we have been able to uphold with the world. From the humble beginnings of the skilled thereon Ariamis who crafted our nation with the brush of life, to my father, the elder of the Rock who cultivated this beautiful land into the glory you see before you, it is an honour to finally welcome, with open arms, our neighbours and friends.**

**"As Imperial King, I ask that you be spoilt by the works of our hands, spirited away with the kindness of our people and blessed by the love we share. May you be welcomed, and may our kingdoms grow together after the introduction of this evening…**"

The applause and shouts that followed was almost deafening and Havel bowed deeply, revelling in the sheer pleasure his achievement had brought his kingdom. Now he could die with a smile on his face knowing that the seeds of hope would continue to sprout diligently even after his sons took the title of Imperious King – for it was only together that Ariamis would continue to prosper, not that either son would disagree even if they were polar opposites.

He snapped his fingers and his servants opened the doors to various areas within the castle as the musicians began to play and the chefs lined large dining tables with food and drink. The visitors below began to converse with the locals and other nations as Havel descended the stairs and onto the ball room floor. His Dragontooth was absent tonight as it rested comfortably inside his bottomless box, ready at a moment's notice to be drawn from a pouch on his hip in case anything went wrong – which he sincerely doubted since both his loyal Painting Guardians and Bloated-Heads were stationed throughout the castle and the city. That reminded him, he would need to thank his youngest son for the ingenious idea. Who know one could shrink the indominable size of those enormous chests to fit the curve of your palm?

The King glanced around the room, taking in the various divinity and their respective kingdoms. They were hard to miss really, being twice the height of any human or undead, and he noticed that the room was sparser than he had imagined. Rather, it was lacking a small army of about a thousand Silver Knight's along with the beings they were to protect until death claimed them.

_'So, Anor Londo is going to be fashionably late as usual'_, Havel thought with a grunt, _'how typical of them.'_

He was about to request a servant bring him a glass of wine when a feminine voice caught his attention, making him turn and open his mouth in surprise. He hadn't expected the hunting of his young scoundrels to begin this soon… oh well, when a woman was hungry she was untameable.

"Ah! Mistress Ella Cinder, what a pleasure it is to see you again." Havel said, putting on a large smile.

"Mistress seems a bit overdone, don't you think Uncle?"

The Imperious King could only smile wider. Ella Cinder's story was known throughout the entire world for her days as a lowly servant to her step-mother and sisters many years ago. Her account of how she had come to fall in love with a disguised prince and receive the blessing of the goddess of favour and protection to attend a royal ball had been – and still was – the dream of all maidens today. Who knew a single crystalline slipper could spark that much uproar in one country? Furthermore, who knew the famous prince that sought high and low for her was the Nameless King himself? It was a small world after all, although it was expected since the country Ella lived in was Lordran – before Gwyn had exiled his firstborn that is.

"It is a great joy to see you so well, dear. Look how much womanlier you've become!" Havel teased and received a playful slap on the shoulder.

"Oh, stop it already. I'm turning red."

"By this point, I'm certain you're used to it. That husband of yours is no slouch when it comes to the expressing the feelings of the heart, and a what a _big_ heart it is, given his size… if I'm not mistaken you've four beautiful daughters now. Is the God of War just that fertile or are you just eager to snuggle during Winter nights?"

Ella Cinder stared wide-eyed at Havel before her pretty face flushed a deep scarlet. The Imperious King grinned triumphantly at this, it had always been a specialty of his to embarrass his god-daughter with the truth. When news had come about the woman's marriage Havel had rushed to Anor Londo, kicked down the infirmary door and embraced his long-lost child with unbridled affection and love. Ella's parents were his trusted friends before they had met their end, and Ella was almost like his own flesh with the way he cared for her as a wee babe. When that arrogant step-mother of hers and those atrocious imps called sisters came into the picture, they had taken her far away from his reach. Havel had been unable to care for her, protect her like he had promised, ensure she lived like the royalty she truly was before her home had been destroyed by war.

Now here she stood before him as the symbol of grace, elegance and benevolence. A true testament that sheer love and kindness could eliminate all troubles and usher in a new order of peace and prosperity. When the King of Ariamis thought about it properly, it was probably for the best that he hadn't found her. How would she have overcome so much, married the man of her dreams and inspired women around the world to be brave in the face of calamity if he had given her the lavish life of a Northern princess? How fate had a way of using people to better society at large.

"Speaking of the stoic fellow, where is Gwyn Jr. at this hour?" Havel asked as he looked around the room. He was sure he would have seen a god over ten feet tall wearing a golden ribcage and rags for armour anywhere. The boy was famous for never wearing anything besides that particular set of clothing.

Ella managed a giggle despite her embarrassment and covered her mouth with a gloved hand. "He doesn't like it when you call him that, Uncle Havel."

"He doesn't like it when I call him 'Nameless' or 'skeleton' either. The boy's so picky that he's starting to resemble someone with the exact same trait." Behind Havel, near a group of Dragon Scholar's, Lithecore sneezed before looking up at the falling snow and cursing the cold.

"I'm guessing he didn't choose to come in favour of a certain prideful god making an appearance tonight?"

"Yes," Ella replied and nodded once. "He's still not ready to face his father yet, although I feel that its because he may try and impale him rather than talk if they meet face-to-face."

"I don't blame him, Ella. What Gwyn did in the past cannot be easily forgotten… Honestly, I'm taking a gamble just by inviting that sad excuse of a father here in the first place." Ella placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled sadly.

"You do your best to live up to the expectations of Aunt Carmella."

Havel looked at her and sighed.

"She would have wanted me to forgive and forget anyways."

To Ella Cinder, Havel's wife was like the mother she had lost. Carmella was kind, loving and thoughtful of others. Her soft smile could brighten up a sombre room in an instant and her voice was a soothing melody, a testament to the tranquillity of Ariamis and the gems it held amongst the falling snow. She was also a woman of unmatched intellect and wit, keeping her dear husband on his toes as she turned Ariamis' people into the welcome souls everyone saw before them today. She was the reason Ella's dear godfather was so comical when he spoke naturally. Carmella had been Havel's life, something more special to him that the Dragontooth he waved around. Her kind nature was the only thing that had changed the rugged ways of Havel, the Rock into the pristine and noble Imperious King Ella saw before her. It was a shame she had to leave so soon after giving birth to two beautiful sons that rivalled her in both wit and personality.

Speaking of Havel's sons, Ella glanced to her left to see a tall young man dressed in a fine black suit converse with a pyromancer from the Great Swamp. His long hair was pulled back against his scalp and the paleness of his skin contrasted wonderfully with the deep amber of his eyes. Ella's eyebrow quirked, and she turned around, catching Havel's attention before he looked towards the same direction.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you also came here with the intention of introducing my sons to your daughter's. Elise, Emilie and Ender, if I'm not mistaken?"

"They've been nagging me to bring them here ever since they were little. If it's not the snow or the drakes that catch their attention, then it's Argon and his infectious personality."

Havel smiled fondly at the memory, the boys had been no older than five when they had met Ella's daughters for the first time. While Lithecore had been the same, choosing to live in the library instead of mingling outside, Argon had been a small knight in alabaster clothing for the trio of sisters. Honestly, he had never seen the boy so happy when he had shown those little girls the entire city in the span of a day. Had it really been that long ago since they had visited?

"He's grown so much since then."

"That he has, Lithecore as well… although both stray far away from the opposite sex. Argon more so than his brother for some reason."

"So, the announcement of the arranged marriage between him and one of the Sisters of Izalith didn't go so well, I take it?" Ella placed a hand to her chin.

"Can a quick-tempered man be taught patience?"

"I see."

They watched as Argon laughed at a joke the pyromancer said before turning to a maiden in a scarlet corset that had just approached them. She had her silver hair tied up in the prettiest bun you would ever see, and her ivory skin almost looked like white marble – smooth and unblemished. They saw Argon smile with the pyromancer and both men took turns to embrace the maiden before conversing and parting ways, the heir of Ariamis pointing outside whilst the pyromancer and the maiden walked hand in hand in the direction given to them.

"The Witch and her daughters are already here?" Ella asked.

"They arrived at the same time as everyone else. They blend into the crowd well." Havel replied.

"Indeed, we do, Imperious King of Ariamis." A third voice agreed with him.

Havel and Ella turned around to see the Witch of Izalith standing behind them, a cowl over her breath-taking features as she smiled at the two of them. In one of her scorched hands was a glass of wine and she swirled it gently before gingerly taking a sip, moaning quietly at the exquisite flavour.

"Now, why didn't you come straight up to the second floor when you arrived?" asked Havel, as he embraced the Izalith Witch and kissed her cheek. "It would have saved me the trouble of sending a servant to find you."

"I don't enjoy being the centre of attention," she replied and took another sip from her glass. "besides, I wanted to mingle a bit more before I came to you. This _is_ a ball, is it not?"

She was correct in what she spoke of. After meeting with him, the entirety of her night would be taken up discussing various topics dealing with their alliance from trade to produce. She deserved to enjoy the freedom this event held before he occupied her schedule. On the other hand, it wasn't like he was going to force her to sit down and talk about nothing but business and the wedding that was to come. He wasn't an old fart that devoted his life to sitting on his throne, he _also_ wanted to enjoy the ball.

"I won't keep you long, Morwena. You of all people know that I'd much rather get drunk on ale than engage in mundane conversation."

The Witch smiled at this remark and took another sip from her nearly depleted glass of wine before turning to Ella and curtsying politely. "A pleasure to meet your acquaintance again, Queen of Cinder."

"The pleasure is all mine." Ella replied and curtsied. "It has been a while, how is your dear son keeping?"

Morwena hiccupped and steadied her balance. How many of those glasses had she had already? Havel knew she was a lover of good wine but any more from his cellar and she would fall into eternal slumber. There was a reason he only gave a single full glass of the aged batch to each King and Queen, it was just too potent to be supped twice. The King turned to her and scratched his beard. She had a strong constitution if she could still manage to stand and speak normally.

"Still clumsy, as before… he recently lost the enchanted ring I melded onto his finger and hasn't been able to revert to a more acceptable form. Lately the soldiers within the kingdom have begun to call him 'Ceaseless Discharge'. A fitting name since all he does is ooze flowing lava from the pores on his oversized body."

"Oh my, I'm so sorry." Ella said with a hand on Morwena's arm.

"Don't- **_hic_ **\- bother… at least he keeps the-** _hic_ **\- forges lit." She took another sip from her glass and frowned when she realized that there wasn't any wine remaining for her to drink. With a pout she turned the glass over as a small drop fell to the carpeted floor. The Witch of Izalith looked around for a servant to bring her another glass when she noticed someone a few feet in front of her before calling out.

"Argon?" said undead heard his name being called and turned towards the trio of King and Queen's.

"Argon! It is- **_hic_ **\- yooouu!" Morwena slurred and attempted to walk forward when she tripped on her black dress and fell forward. Argon's eyes widened, and he rushed forward, catching the Izalith Queen in his arms and sighing that he made it in time. He may have had reservations when it came to this whole arranged marriage business, but it didn't mean he wanted to see the woman face-plant in front of a plethora of other rulers. The heir's eyes rose to his father as he steadied the Witch on her own two feet and saw the man smile warmly. Argon smiled back, he knew his old man wouldn't have been fast enough to catch the falling woman. It was a good thing he had spent the last of his souls enhancing his reflexes prior to this event.

"Morwena, are you alright?" Ella asked in a worried tone, her hands gently resting on the Izalith Queen's shoulders as she mumbled unintelligibly. Wait, was that… four-year old Blood-Drop Argon smelt on his future mother-in-law's breath? No wonder she was a stumbling mess, a glass of that and you'd be smack-dab on the floor singing like a tired bard.

"You really shouldn't be drinking so much. Remember the _last_ time you drank from Uncles vats and nearly _died_?" she scolded the older woman before an empty glass was shoved into her face.

"Here deary… bring me another- **_hic_ **\- glass of that _delicious_ Blood Stopper!"

"_Blood-Drop._"

"Yes please!" she shouted with enthusiasm before placing the side of her face against Argon's chest and inhaling deeply. "_Ahhh!_ Ever since old age you've shrunk, Havel." She dragged her burnt hands across Argon's front before feeling his shoulders, back and finally groping his backside, making the heir yelp and blush.

"_Oooh! _And you don't smell like an old man today!" Havel frowned and sniffed his arm. He smelt just fine, dammit.

Argon, meanwhile, continued to struggle against the Witch of Izalith as she embraced him tightly, rubbing her cheek against the waistcoat covering his chest as she mistook him for his father. Well, at least she was a vibrant woman that wouldn't bore the marriage he was being forced into. He should probably tell her who he was before she did something drastic in her drunk state, as it was she was currently approaching his face with her red lips all pouty. Who knew she had the hots for his old man?

"Um… Lady Izalith…"

"Hmm?" she replied.

"You're not hugging my father."

"I'm not?!"

"No, you are holding onto me… Argon. his son."

Ella and Havel watched as she brought up a hand to remove her cowl from her head. Lush, wavy hair spilled forth framing the heart-shaped curve of her ivory cheeks and she looked up at Argon with wide onyx eyes. Then, suddenly, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck before gingerly rubbing her cheek against his with a large smile on her face, rendering the poor prince a stuttering mess as he tried to get the woman off of him.

"**Havel!**" she screamed, causing a few people to turn a look at her in confusion.

"Yes Morwena?"

"He's handsomer than I thought! Ooh! And so _strong_… Forget about him marrying my daughters, allow him to marry _me_!"

If it was even possible, Argon turned a shade whiter than his usual paleness and stiffly turned his head towards his father. Havel nearly burst out laughing at how pleading the boy's gaze was. Even Ella giggled behind her hand at the display, it was too much. The Imperious King, for his part, simply shook his head and grinned. Even the _Queen_ of Izalith was willing to throw herself at him, a literal _God_ of Life and he was _still_ adamant to marriage?! Havel wished he had been that sought after when he was younger, then again, he would have still married his wife regardless of the path his life took. He just wished he had that much attention growing up.

"Now, Now, Morwena, you know I can't do that. It's not that I wouldn't mind you as a daughter-in-law, but you already have seven children. Besides, if I let you marry Argon where would our fluctuating chemistry go? I'd be green with envy, I would!"

"Let's not forget that you're passed the age of marriage now, dear." Ella put in.

"Phooey!" Morwena pouted and pressed her face against Argon again. The prince, who couldn't seem to decide whether to run or comfort the sad Witch, chose the latter and embraced the woman, awkwardly stroking the back of her head as she sighed and snuggled closer into his body. She mumbled something about him being warmer than her Chaos Flame-whip and he didn't know if she was complimenting him or not.

"Ah! Aunt Ella, its great to see you again." Argon said after he noticed her.

"Argon look how much you've grown," she replied with a warm smile.

"How are Elise, Emilie and Ender? I haven't seen them since we were children."

"Yes, Ella and I were just talking about that," Havel said. Now was his chance to tease the boy further, he rarely got the chance with his repeated attempts to avoid the topic of marriage. "They've grown into quite the beauties, I hear. And they nagged dear Ella here to see you, all three of them. They _are_ of age, after all."

Havel mentally grinned when he saw his son gulp involuntarily.

_'That's the stuff! How's payback taste, 'ya brat?!'_

"Perhaps you should meet them!" Ella said excitedly, aware of Havel's childish jab. He really needed to act more like an adult but then again, she _really_ wanted him to meet one of her daughters. Perhaps in doing so she could persuade her Godfather to change his mind about Izalith and marry Argon off to one of the children of Cinder instead?!

"I-I should?" Argon stuttered. Why were the odds never in his favour? "W-Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt-"

"Nonsense!" The Izalith Queen blurted out in her drunken state and pulled him towards the dance floor. "I want to dance now, and Havel isn't young enough to keep up with me."

Again, Havel frowned and looked over his muscular form. He wasn't _that_ old… was he?

"A-Are you sure?!" Argon asked as he was pulled into the river of dancers and their partners by Morwena.

"Of course! And while we're at it you can tell me why you're so against marrying one of my daughters."

The prince's eyes widened as he fell into a fast waltz with a slurred Queen in his arms, earning him a few jealous looks from the other princesses that had been eyeing him from the moment they arrived.

"Quelaag really isn't that bad, she's just a Tsundere!"

"Wha? How do you even know what that means?"

"Shiva visits my chunibyo daughter from time to time. I learn stuff!"

"You need to calm down, we're going to knock into the other dancers!"

"I'm going to Heaven if you keep caressing my hips like that!"

"Woah watch out! Watch out!"

"_Wheeee!"_

Havel and Ella watched as the poor heir redirected the drunk Izalith Witch from smashing into a food table before guiding her into the proper stance as the music changed and they were forced into a faster tempo. They spun and twisted as Argon complained that all that spinning would make her sick, and Morwena simply laughed, stating that turbulence was her life… or something like that.

"Are you okay with this? She'll keep him to herself until he's spent."

"It's fine with me, Uncle."

"He won't be able to meet your daughter's if we leave them like this."

"They'll be furious with me but will understand. Let him get to understand that marriage isn't a bad thing."

"Even if it's forced?" Havel questioned with a sigh. Things would be so much different if they didn't require a marriage to settle this alliance.

"He'll come to understand… besides, my daughters still have your other son to keep them company."

Havel flinched, "Lithecore doesn't fancy anyone as company. You realize that, don't you?"

"And yet, Emilie and Ender still haven't stopped talking about him. In fact, isn't that him over there with Ender right now?"

"You really want to get one of my sons hitched with one of your daughters, don't you?" The Imperious King said with a thick eyebrow raised to her. Ella just smiled in reply.

"'Men of Ariamis treat their woman like prized titanite, close guarded to their hearts.' At least… that's what I've been told by a certain someone." She said and wiggled her eyebrows at him in reply.

"Carmella," Havel sighed and put a hand to his face. "Damn that woman and her lovable big mouth."

As the Imperious King was shaking his head, he felt Ella tug the arm of his coat with more force than necessary and he raised his head to question why she was behaving like a small child when he came face to face with a man he hoped never to see again. Havel couldn't stop a smile from growing on his face as he saw his side of the crowd part for the nobility of the Shinning City.

_'About damn time they came. I was going to serve dessert by this point.'_

"What took you so long? Couldn't fit through the painting with all those Knights in tow?"

"It's good to see your mouth hasn't lost its edge, Archbishop Havel. Too bad your body couldn't do the same, I fear I might feel bad if I swat you to the ground like I did in the old days."

The Imperious King's grin only grew wider and Ella stepped back as he suddenly took a step forward into the face of the great Lord of Sunlight.

"How about we test that theory?"

* * *

**I didn't know what the Witch of Izalith's real name was, or if she even had a name. After checking on the fandom site and various wikis I still found nothing, so she has been blessed with the name Morwena since I couldn't think of a fancy name starting with the letter Q. Don't hate on me if it isn't up to Dark Souls standards because I couldn't care less about petty prejudices over a simple name. I had a lot of fun creating her personality and seeing her drunk let me in stitches.**

**Big old Nameless will make an appearance here for a few brief intervals (or longer depending on the escalation of this spin-off) and he'll be facing daddy-dearest to boot.**

**As you probably already guessed, Ella Cinder is the DS version of Cinderella. Her name was like a big red button I couldn't help hitting down with gusto and twisting to fit the story, and yes, she is Nameless' wife. Hit me with as much flames as you like for that if you want to… I honestly really enjoyed creating her, and the fact that her surname was Cinder just made her perfect for the role as Firstborn's honey-bunny.**

**The next chapter features our favourite cross breed and the Elite Knights of Gwyn, so stay tuned! We also get a sneak peak at what our shivering elder brother _really_ thinks about marriage…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 3 – ****Why Can't They Just Talk It Out?**

* * *

"Now, now, that's enough boys," Big Hat Logan said, diffusing the rising confrontation with a firm grip on both the Imperious King's and Sunlight Lord's shoulders.

"Unhand me Logan, so I can cave in the skull of this hairy-fairy!" Havel growled and reached into his pouch. He was completely wrong, inviting this pompous god had been the dumbest idea he had ever had, his drinking match with Morwena aside. The fool with the inferiority-complex had brought his armada along for a simple _ball_ as if they were VIP's, had the gall to arrive late _and_ still possessed the stones to insult Havel in his own domain? He was asking for it, he was, a grand face-smashing by the hands of one Imperious King that was just _itching_ for round two after so many generations apart from his beloved sand bag.

Gwyn turned his sneer towards the Sorcerer. "Unless you want to be bitten by a thousand spears of sunlight, _boy_, I suggest you let go of me. I have a bag of bones older than Nito to crunch under my heel."

"That's never been proven, and you know it!"

"Well, given your ragged appearance and shrunken form, I could swear the two of you were brothers!" The Lord of Sunlight allowed a grin to fit his bearded face as Havel ground his teeth. It had been far too long since he had had the chance to enjoy insulting this peon that was once his trusted Archbishop. It was so refreshing, in fact, that the god almost felt a century younger at the short exchange of words.

The Imperious King sighed loudly before a grin of equal measure lifted his mouth. "At least the skeleton could hold his own against a simple undead like me. It looks as though you brought the entire army with you, Gwyn, and you're dressed in full-armour! What's the matter, are you trying to compensate for something during old age?"

Immediately Gwyn's smug expression turned sour and he roughly shrugged off Logan's arm, stepping into Havel's personal space to stare down at him with his height advantage. Havel's grin only grew wider, and he did the same, stepping so close to the Sunbringer that the two were almost touching chests. Logan, for his part, felt inferior… and a tad guilty. He had only attempted to purge any conflict as quick as possible between the two rulers before their rivalry and bad-blood disturbed the ball itself. The Dragon Scholar graduate knew how long the Imperious King of Ariamis had been planning this ball and the careful attention to detail placed in each and every movement he had made in the past few years. To see that all crumble in the span of a few minutes would be devastating. However, seeing the two overlords this close to an all-out brawl was like a hammer to his pride as a genius. He feared that he had just made things worse than they already were.

"My arm is still strong enough to throw you into yesteryear, old fool. Don't be deceived, my army is only hear to keep the filth of this kingdom from staining my armour."

"Keep talking like that and I'll have to put you over my knee like the _last_ time you were disobedient. You remember it well, don't you _boy_."

Logan paled when he saw the sparks of lightning crackle against the god's armour, this wasn't going to be good. Gwyn opened his mouth, about to reply with a scathing retort when a fair, manicured hand rested gently on the man's arm. Both men stopped their verbal contest to stare at the intruding appendage and turned to see the glowing face of Gwynevere as she pulled her father's arm into her embrace, smiling like nothing was wrong with the current sequence of events.

"Come now, father, we're at a ball," her gentle voice overwhelmed the situation like cool water against dry ground. "let's do our best to be on our best behaviour." Logan let go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and bowed to the buxom goddess in thanks. That would teach him never to get involved with grumpy old men again. All he had wanted was a peek into Seath's archives and Havel's annex, for Lloyd's sake. Was that too much to ask for?!

"Gwynevere," Gwyn scolded, "I'm in the middle of-"

"Ah! Lady Gwyni', how much you've grown since the last time I saw you!" Havel cried and bowed deeply, making the Sunlight God's eye twitch. He was being ignored by the _one_ man he despised more than his firstborn, and it was daughter's doing! He huffed and curled his lip as the Queen of Sunlight left his side to embrace the Imperious King like he was her long-lost parental figure. Did she forget? He was standing _right here_! Why hadn't he chosen Gwyndolin to accompany him tonight? At least his more feminine son wouldn't have done that thing Gwynevere always did to pacify him by speaking gently into his ear like a whispering will 'o the wisp.

"Its been too long Grandfather Havel," she said in reply before kissing his cheek tenderly. Again, Gwyn seethed in front of the two of them as Logan began to procrastinate at the sparks rippling off the god's armour like yellow snakes. She was calling him _grandfather_ now?! Since when? How was that _thing_ even related to them in the slightest and if so, when did such blasphemy occur?! Was this Seath's doing again?

"I trust everyone in the kingdom has been treating you well since Grandmother Carmella left us?"

Us? Who was this us his daughter was mentioning? How did she even _know_ the fiend's late bride? Did Gwyndolin tell her, or Seath? Why that traitorous, slimy, albino dragon and his carelessness for any information not deemed important to him! He would be sure to receive the God of Sunlight's wrath in full, did the lizard still think he forgave him for bedding his daughter and experimenting on his grandchild? Bugger what Ornstein and Gough advised, that ugly beast would get a Lightning Spear where even _his_ golden rays didn't shine.

"Indeed, they are my dear," Havel replied and patted one of her dainty hands in his. "my people treat me as one would a great oak, nurturing me and planting flowers of kindness at the base of my trunk. My son's do the same in that regard to motivate me, sometimes they remind me so much of that boisterous woman."

It was no lie that Carmella, wife of the Archbishop Havel, was a woman unlike any other in this world. Gwyn himself had been captivated by her audacity and charm, winning his favour with a sly curve of her rosy lips. The woman had been on par with the great scholars of old, and even in death she still managed to surpass the masses at strategy and domination. Her influence had been the only reason he and Havel were on this semi-platonic relationship.

"Ah, your sons are here?!" Gwynevere asked excitedly, her hands clasped against her overflowing bosom that strained the elegant blouse she wore. To the side of the two gods and King, Ella stared at the woman's overabundance of flesh with wide eyes. Had she never heard of chest binding's before? She wasn't jealous for the simple reason that her Nameless King loved her with reckless abandon, she was just surprised that a goddess living in _Anor Londo_ of all kingdoms didn't have the decency to cover up what little modestly she possessed in attire three times too small for her frame. Couldn't she see the number of visiting noble's ogling her with fountains of blood pouring from their noses? All that blood was going to attract the drakes.

"Why, of course. Here comes one of them right now." The gods of Lordran, Ella and Logan all turned to see a tall man dressed in an exquisite navy suit, his obsidian hair left to dangle next to his pale cheeks as he approached the group, a silver tray holding half a dozen glasses of Ariamis' best wine in his hands.

Havel smirked to himself as his firstborn approached. He had been absent during the tailoring Argon had endured and the only time the Imperious King had managed to catch a glance of his first heir was before the arrival of all the kingdom's guests. In that time, Havel had seen the boy lead the servants, advise the chefs in the kitchen, reallocate the Bloated-head soldiers and arrange for all the available handmaidens to rest themselves in the staff quarters until the event was drawn to a close.

Havel admired his introverted son. For all his stubbornness to marry, his reclusive nature and dislike of any and all interaction with people in general, he had single-handedly run Ariamis from the shadows without batting so much as an eyelash. The Imperious King trusted him with his own Dragontooth – a task he wouldn't have granted his own _wife_ – and understood the way in which his son's mind worked. He was the more political of the pair, not smarter than his younger brother or better, but merely possessing a natural affinity for negotiations, politics and nurturing relations Argon couldn't grasp without slight difficulty. He was like a cartographer, silently crafting a complex map of order and direction so that others could grow from the knowledge he would spread, a genius of his time that spent every waking hour head-first in one book or the next. And now he was here to welcome the great Lord Gwyn into their prosperous country with that silver tongue of his; how typical of the eldest son of the Rock.

"Gwyni', old fool," Gwyn growled at Havel at the nickname. "may I introduce the first heir of Ariamis; Lithecore, Child of the Rock."

"It is a pleasure to _finally_ meet you, King and Queen of _Sunlight_." Lithecore said and bowed his head.

Lord Gwyn stared at Havel's son as he offered Gwynevere a glass of scarlet wine like some fancy butler. He may have been old, but he saw the mountain of knowledge stored within those amber-coloured eyes of his, the meaning to every move he made. So, this was the firstborn of Carmella… he carried himself exactly like his late mother, the god could give him that. He knew his place on the food chain and wasn't afraid to utilize every advantage he had to win their trust and loosen their guard; how clever. That wine he was offering was no ordinary selection from the club-wielding King's cellar either, Gwyn could smell it. It was one of their finest, most likely a bottle of Frostbite Ariamis was famous for, the same brand the Queen of Izalith was hooked on.

"Oh, my, He's just as dashing as Grandfather Havel was when he first became Archbishop, don't you think so Father?!" The redheaded god exclaimed as she bounced back to the Lord of Cinder's side, her expression changing from joy to delight in the span of a second. Lithecore briefly wondered if that smiling face of hers ever hurt from straining her muscles for too long. He always knew some people – his jolly brother included – saw the glass half-full and were known to smile continuously. However, he had to wonder whether her visage was just a mask like the many he wore when forced to socialize for the greater good. Perhaps she _was_ just this friendly after all and his resentment of people clouded his judgement? Either way, he rationalized that it didn't really matter. He was just here for moral support so that his father didn't allow his temper to ruin the event, he had worked far too hard helping from the side-lines for the Imperious King to smash it away with a bout of anger.

"You flatter me with your _kind_ words, Lady Gwynevere," he replied and held out the tray in his hands. "please don't be _kept_ from… _indulging_ in tonight's festivities by my Father. Try _some_ of our wine, the batch is most… _divine_ this harvest."

"How kind of you," the Queen of Sunlight said and took two glasses from the tray, inhaling the scent from one whilst she forced the other into her brooding father's meaty hands. It was clear the God of Lightning wanted nothing to do with tonight's festivities. In fact, he looked as f he didn't want to be _here_ in the first place, to which Lithecore pondered on _why_ he had shown up anyways.

"Ella dear, are you familiar with this particular blend?"

Ella Cinder turned her shocked face to the buxom woman in question. She had tried to blend into the background as naturally as possible when her father-in-law had arrived in his shinning splendour. It wasn't that she feared the man or anything but the fact that her husband, Gwyn's firstborn wasn't on the best of terms also meant that _she_ and Gwyn weren't on the best of terms. Why did her lovable sister-in-law have to choose this moment to include her into the conversation? Did she realize that Gwyn was _literally_ glaring at her now?

"Oh, I uh… well, I've had the pleasure of drinking it once." She said as the goddess made her way between Gwyn and Havel to wrap her free arm around Ella's shoulders. From where Lithecore stood, it just looked awkward, Ella was nearly half the height of Gwynevere. She looked like a midget next to that royal hag- ah, goddess. He forgot he had to behave until the ball was over.

"Really?!" Gwynevere exclaimed and took a small sip before her shinning face exploded into a shinning redness. "it _does_ taste divine!"

"_This_ wine comes only twice per year. As the name, Frostbite, _implies_; it can only be harvested during the harshest of periods in Ariamis." Lithecore said and bowed his head as his father took a glass. Gwyn watched as the Imperious King inhaled the scent of the red liquid deeply before sighing in appreciation and taking a small sip.

The Lord of Sunlight would have scoffed at how simple-minded his ex-archbishop was behaving but had held his otherwise forward tongue when his daughter shot him one of her special 'speak and you'll see what happens next' looks. The god didn't fancy being embarrassed by his wild daughter in front of the man he despised anyways.

_'Why the hell hadn't Gwyndolin come instead?!'_

"That being _said_…" he son of Havel continued and smiled. Well, perhaps to most it looked like a good-natured smile. To the Sunbringer, it just seemed like the boy was trying to appear approachable despite his hidden dismay. "we _don't indulge_ in it often. _Too_ _much_ more than a glass and you may find yourself drunk to your soul. _Frostbite_ wine _is_ quite _expensive_… thus the potency is expected."

Gwyn frowned at the young undead. Had he just warned himself and Gwynevere? He was quite certain the boy had said 'don't indulge too much, Frostbite is expensive' somewhere underneath that explanation. The Lord of Sunlight shook his head. This puny brat may be a vault of knowledge, but he wasn't foolish enough to insult _him_ of all people… or smart enough to weave that into his speech so fluently.

"Now, now Lithecore," Havel said and gripped his son firmly on the shoulder, a smile plastered onto his face. "how about you bless the Elite Knights of Anor Londo with a sample of our hospitality. From what I can tell, these Silver Knight's don't indulge in alcohol, do they Gwyni?"

"Not a drop!" the near-drunk goddess replied after taking a third sip from her still full glass. Ella for her part was trying to recover from her first, whilst attempting to simultaneously prevent Gwynevere from flashing her abundant chest to a few other King's that seemed ash-coloured from the nosebleeds they were sporting.

"Of _course_, Father," Lithecore replied before turning his amber gaze to Gwyn and bowing his head. "please do _excuse_ me…" he walked passed the Lord of Sunlight and into the straight formation of Silver Knight's stationed like shiny banners of either side of the undead.

Gwyn allowed a smirk to lift his bearded lip. _"So the boy inherited Carmella's wit… he's lucky this is a celebration." _The Sunlight God watched the undead head towards a quartet of two tall men, a giant and a small woman. _"Otherwise his insolent mouth would have been pelted by my lightning."_

He looked down at the glass in his large hand and snorted. He doubted this wine would be any grander than Anor Londo's Sun-Kiss mead, but it wouldn't hurt to try it. If the Witch of Izalith loved this wine so much that she would attempt to bankrupt her kingdom for a single _barrel_ of the stuff, maybe it held promise… even if it _was_ made by a peon like Havel. Gwyn took a sip of the rich red liquid and supressed a pleased sigh from escaping his lips as he stared back at the innocent-looking glass.

Sweet souls, it _was_ divine. It almost felt like he was being washed in bright moonlight as snow covered his broad form in a gentle embrace. Damn, he could almost _fell_ his Lord Soul turn tipsy.

Gwyn cleared his throat and attempted to divert his attention from the glass of heaven before him. "Carmella birthed two sons to my knowledge. Where is your second born?" Havel locked eyes with him and growled loudly. Gwyn merely sneered back impassively awaiting an answer. Ella noticed the tension rise as Gwynevere was still attempting to tell her left leg from her right.

"Do not say her name like one of your servant's," he spat. "and do _not_ speak down to me as if I were your subordinate. You are in _my_ Kingdom now, Gwyn… remember your place."

"Please _Havel," _Gwyn replied with a tight smile as sparks began flickering off from his armour again. "I dare you to repeat your blasphemy once more. You still fail to realize who and what you are speaking to, but perhaps my blade inside your gut will serve as a grand reminder."

Logan, who had refused a glass of Frostbite for the simple reason that alcohol dulled the mind and sharpened the tongue, began to pale as the two King's stared each other off again. He had remained silent and, in the background, this entire time due to how out of place he felt amongst God's and nobility – and because he was still socially-awkward – but had resigned to the notion that he just wasn't cut out for this whole political business and began to step back cautiously. He wasn't going to disturb the hornet's nest anymore now that a soul arrow had been blasted at it.

As the knowledgeable sorcerer was a but to turn on his heel and disappear into the flogged crowd he felt someone jump on top of him, their arms closing in around his neck from behind. Logan paled, and his jaw went slack. This was his final moment it seemed, inside the kingdom he called his temporary home, in front of the Lord of Sunlight he wished he could run away from, amongst the young Lithecore he had seemed to befriend- wait a moment. Was that lilac he smelt in the air? And was someone pushing large cushions against his spine? If they were, then it was oddly war-

_'Oh heavens.'_

"Siirr Loogan." Gwynevere slurred against his right ear and he felt his body stiffen immediately. This was bad, very bad indeed. He wished he had his big hat on, maybe that way the people now gawking at him wouldn't notice the ruby red against his defined cheekbones. "Loogan, where are you running off tooo?" This was bad, he repeated as the Queen of Sunlight pressed her body flush against him, making him widen his eyes and turn his head a fraction towards her father. If looks could kill, Gwyn would have slain him seven times over already with the wrathful glare he was sporting. Why couldn't he have a normal evening for once in his curious life? And how in the world did this buxom goddess manage to flash from Queen Ella's side to his in a matter of seconds?

"U-Um, perhaps you sh-shouldn't stand so close, Lady Gwy- oh my, be careful!" he stuttered out and caught her as the goddess tipped over her own two feet. What was up with goddesses and wine tonight? He knew Morwena had a terrible drinking problem and so she was excused from his usual berating – and because he feared being flambéed alive – but Gwynevere was a different story. Indeed, she had the attention span of a blood-spitting mosquito but surely she knew better than to get drunk on Ariamis' finest wine after _just_ arriving… right?

As Logan attempted to move a goddess nearly twice his size with much difficulty the Imperious King stared at the pair along with Gwyn before sighing out loudly. She may have been a pretty face with no apparent wit, but she knew how diffuse a situation quickly. Havel admired Gwynevere for that, things were getting a bit too heated between himself and the Lord of Sunlight. Perhaps the God _was_ here to put the past behind him – even if he didn't show it – and Havel was just being difficult? He turned his head back towards the Sunbringer as he muttered something about his wild daughter under his breath. Havel listened and frowned for a moment, did he just mention something about Gwyndolin and proper posture? Either way, he missed it.

"Argon." Gwyn swivelled his head towards the King of Ariamis and raised an eyebrow in question. "my second born by three minutes is called Argon, and he's just as mischievous as your daughter, if not worse."

The God scoffed and took a sip from his glass. "Twins. Definitely worse than Gwynevere."

Havel felt a smile tug at his lips and he sniggered. Funny how the man he had hated after an incident more than a few centuries ago could still force him to act passive. Then again, the ex-archbishop was never one to draw out difficult situations in public – even if his current age made him more prone to violence and bickering compared to his prime. He was a man of the Rock, after all; integrity, passivity and mild stoicism was a trait he would have even on his death bed, Lloyd forbid.

"Where is the boy then?"

"Currently being used to sober Morwena."

Gwyn grimaced before muttering his displeasure. The Witch of Izalith may have been one of the Great Lords that rose with the First Flame, but the woman acted far too much like a human. Whilst the prospect of humanity wasn't really repulsing to the Lord of Light, he felt that as both a Deity and a ruler the Witch should have acted with more decency than a drunken mage. She had been spending too much time with the Kings of New Londo, not to mention those visiting undead from the East.

"So, she's already latched into the boy… how fitting for that drunk." The Imperious King turned to Gwyn with a surprised look on his face.

"Morwena's tongue has always been loose." He stated, and the undead King understood before grunting in acknowledgement. That would be the last time he ever let her indulge on his personal collection ever again. If he had also mentioned Ariamis' plans for the future involving the crowning of both his sons, the God of Light would have been the first to know. He knew Morwena didn't give a damn for most of what happened outside of her fiery walls but was asking her to shut her mouth about their alliance too much to ask? They _were_ going to be technically family after Argon got his act together and married one of her daughters.

"Has he decided on a bride to be?" Gwyn asked.

"He hasn't even decided on visiting the _castle _yet."

"Having six daughters of Izalith to choose from would be daunting for anyone."

Havel chuckled into the rim of his glass. "Quite the opposite, really." He saw Gwyn turned his head to him in question and the Imperious King merely offered a jovial smile. "Argon has voiced his opinion that none of them are suitable."

At this, the Sunbringer raised a curious eyebrow. Morwena was one side of a coin, possessing no interest in what the world thought or reacted towards her reckless behaviour; however, her daughters and only son were a different matter. Each Izalith-spawn held unique personalities directed to the Kingdom they inhabited. Where most would be led to believe that the princesses of the hottest country in the world took after their mother, the more observant understood that the woman's children lived to keep the arid land afloat. Their collective persona and shared mindset aided them in making an otherwise inhospitable country one that millions flocked to see, the power Morwena held as a God of Life drew many to seek aid for the sick and dying whilst each individual child focussed on creating a legacy capable of parting through the white clouds above. In the God's opinion, any one of the sister's would have been the perfect candidate for the snow prince. To suddenly hear that the boy didn't want to marry _any_ of them was shocking for two reasons; firstly, this Argon was either in love with another woman or his sword was bent in another direction, and two; why had Havel chosen for his second-born to be married first? None of it made sense to the God, yet he still agreed that undead customs varied from his own.

He noticed Ella leave their side to join a group of chattery clerics. He snorted through his broad nostrils and took another sip of Frostbite. She has been brave to stay by their side despite the bad blood between a father and his disobedient son but he shouldn't take his anger out on her. It was pointless when she wasn't the cause of his firstborn's exile, he was.

Before he could admit that the wine Havel had offered was staring to take effect on him, both men heard a loud yelp and turned to see Logan holding an unconscious Gwynevere in his arms. The master of sorcery attempted to ask a Silver Knight for help as his body strained to keep her from meeting the floor below but was ignored by the loyal soldier. They both watched as the silver-haired man huffed and heaved the Queen of Sunlight up before walking. By this point, the men that had been ogling every jiggle and bounce of the woman's curvaceous body fainted into a small dogpile when they witnessed her ample chest bob whilst Logan carried her to a plush sofa at the far end of the main hall.

"Is it wise for her to act like that?" Havel asked, and Gwyn sighed for was seemed like the umpteenth time that evening. He really, _really_ wished he had brought Gwyndolin with him instead.

"Gwynevere does as she pleases. Not even my wrath is enough to make her behave, and quite frankly, I doubt anything ever will."

"Not even her daughter?"

Gwyn's eyes widened, and he snapped he head towards the Imperious King who was simply savouring his wine. When the man had finally swallowed and turned back to him he was sporting a smirk on his bearded cheeks. "Did you expect me _not_ to notice? It's the first I've had the chance to see a goddess with dragon scales, Gwyn." The Lord of Sunlight simply sighed in defeat. It would be a useless endeavour to try and fool the ruler of the North, once the man found a sliver of information he followed it until he was satisfied.

"Priscilla, I'm afraid, doesn't seem to care much for her mother… or that pathetic Duke she has for a father." He growled the last bit and watched as Havel's eyes turned steely.

"So, it's true then. Seath _is_ her father." If anyone knew of Havel's rage toward the Everlasting Dragon, it was Gwyn. In truth, the only reason he and Havel were on such bad terms today was because of Seath the Scaleless' actions towards the ex-archbishop… and partly due to how Gwyn's own bloodlust got the better of him in those days if he were to be completely honest. This was one of the reason's the albino beast had refused to accompany him tonight, besides his obsession for his beloved experiments that always ended in failure. If he had placed but a single wing through the painting that connect Ariamis to Anor Londo, Gwyn had no doubt that the Imperious King would have stopped at nothing to mount his white head on his Dragontooth. Indeed, Seath was hated by most for his inhumane actions – despite the fact he knew nothing about humanity to begin with – but he was no father of his granddaughter, the dragon's genes be damned.

"That fool can hardly be called a father," Gwyn replied before he took a gulp from his glass and sighing out tiredly. "in the same sense that Gwynevere cannot be called a proper mother."

Havel's eyes softened, and he took the half-full glass from his old friend's hand – with much difficulty due to how angry he got when the Imperious King refused him something similar to replace it – and rested a hand on his armoured shoulder. "At least you're doing your best as her grandfather." He frowned when the tipsy God of Sunlight merely shook his head solemnly.

"The moment I realized the power she carried to slay Divinity I opted to lock her away in a cold prison."

"I… I see," Havel replied. "Judging from her being here, however, I'm going to guess you didn't do something that stupid." The Imperious King shook his head and was thinking of actually drawing out his Dragontooth to knock some sense into this former comrade when he sighed and shook his head again. Whether Gwyn received a thousand of his best strikes, it still wouldn't help teach him about family. The God of Sunlight had only ever known light and dark. He had made three children for the sake of simply carrying out his legacy, he wouldn't have known love and familial bonds if it smacked in the face with a lightning spear.

"Gwyndolin… he raised her. Made her feel like she held a shred of existence." Gwyn murmured out, rocking on his heels. He would never admit it, but that Frostbite had been _good_ to his senses. In fact, the God almost felt like dragging his age-old friend to the dance floor and reiterating the Ballad of Sunlight they had both done after building Anor Londo in all its glory. Well, he would have, if the thought of his grandchild hadn't formed a sour taste to occupy his mouth.

It was true that he hadn't seen the cross breed as his own flesh when a he had found out about Seath's coupling with his daughter. In fact, it had taken both Artorias and Ornstein to hold him at bay from killing both of them for such a blasphemous act. He should have known better than to trust the very species he despised to this day. The God of Sunlight had thought that things would have turned out differently, however; what with his previously wild daughter becoming motherly and that albino Duke seeing things other than calculative experiments with that ugly glowing crystal he kept in his study. It was just a shame that it had taken an absence of dragon scales to turn a delicate situation into broken shards of bloodied glass.

When Seath had begun seeing Priscilla as nothing more than a defective creation, he had returned to his brooding behaviour, locking himself away inside an archive too small for the machinations of his mind. Gwynevere had taken to indulging in the kingdom's strongest liquor to blur the wounds her now ex-husband had left; and that poor child had been abandoned and shunned by anyone that cared to look at her frail form.

He hadn't done much to help either. His mind had been preoccupied with the loss of an Archbishop and the festering hatred he felt for humanity and his firstborn at the time. It was only because of Gwyndolin that the young half-dragon was even still alive today, least she be tossed to some brothel to live out her days as an abused Goddess. His son had felt compassion – a thing Gwyn admitted he had never truly felt until it was too late – and had groomed the child, with Velka's help, even if he hadn't wanted it at the time. Together they had raised the forgotten cross breed into a Goddess unlike any other, a wonder to behold as she silently grew in the moonlit night.

Her appearance in Anor Londo thereafter had become a neutral occurrence, even he had grown fond of his previously unwanted grandchild. Things had begun to finally settle in this fluctuating river of emotions and strained formality. Until his idiotic daughter had seen it fit to marry her only child off to a weaker nation to rid herself of the sight of her greatest mistake.

Gwyn agreed that he should have said something – with how close he had become with the girl he had the right to refuse besides being the Lord of the kingdom – and yet his broad mouth that had been used to barking out orders for millennium had chosen to stay shut like the Kiln of the First Flame itself. Gwynevere's word had been final, and Seath hadn't given a single crystal golem of care to the decision. Gwyndolin and Velka had argued with her, upturning his Knight's, his throne, his castle… all while he sat back and remained silent for the foolish God he was.

Gwyn sighed out deeply as he though about the arranged marriage Ricard and Priscilla would enter. He couldn't fathom why his nearly always drunk daughter had deemed it necessary to choose _that_ man in question – he doubted he even wanted to know what went on in her brainless head – when it was plainly obvious the King found it more appealing to fight alongside his army. Gwyn sighed out again as he stared at the crowd around him having a jolly time drinking wine and dancing away from their troubles. He wished he could be doing the same right now, that glass of Frostbite had begun to take effect rather nicely before Havel had taken it away from him.

Before the God could brood any more on the matter he felt a strong hand grip his armoured shoulder and turned his head. The Imperious King of Ariamis was sending him a knowing smile as he attempted to lead him away from the ball room. A Silver Knight stepped forward to silently intervene but stopped dead in his tracks with a raised hand from Gwyn. Why was it that he had brought an armada with him again, to show his strength to all the visiting countries tonight? What a joke when his kingdom's own divinity was divided amongst themselves.

"Come with me Gwyn, away from all this noise." The Imperious King said, and the Lord of Sunlight nodded in agreement. Havel knew he had it rough with twins that refused to marry, but Gwyn had to be in an even rougher situation if his tired face was anything to go on. Gwyni' was a problem even before she bore a child and had caused him to lose most of his hair as archbishop in those days. The goddess was adamant to anything and anyone that tried to obstruct her entertainment, the definition of the word disobedient, and he hadn't even been that strict as the head of the Church.

Still, after all that had happened – and with that _trashy _beast of all beings – the Lord of Sunlight was not able to even breath properly. How could he when the discovery of true familial love was beginning to rip at the sinews of his oversized heart? Havel understood wholeheartedly only _because_ he had been the God's greatest comrade for the many years he had spent in Anor Londo.

"Only if you give me back my glass of Frostbite… I wasn't done with that." The God slurred.

"How about a bottle of Sun-Kiss to better ease the nerves? I think I've still got one or two left in my study." Gwyn huffed and shrugged his shoulders. Anything strong would do, be it his ale or Havel's; he just wanted to sit down for once and not have to worry about the great disassembling of his own family.

As the two lords began to make their way towards the stairway Gwyn noticed something out of the corner of his eye and shrugged off his old friend's hand, causing the Imperious King to look in his direction. "What in the blazes is the matter now? Don't tell you're _still_ pulling that tough act after being half drunk off your as-"

"Is that your boy amongst my Knight's?"

Havel stopped his ranting and turned a curious eye forward to see the most peculiar sight his wise eyes would ever see for a few lifetimes. Beyond the parallel row of Silver Knights, near two plush couches set at the entrance of the ball room stood Gwyn's Elite Four dressed head to toe in attire fit for a grand occasion as tonight. Standing in between two of the God's knight's in particular stood Lithecore with his hand splayed and body bent forward in request to dance with… was that the Lord's Blade Ciaran?

"Brave man." Was all Gwyn said before turning and lumbering up the stairway towards what he thought was the direction Havel's study was.

"Hurry up Havel. Good ale and loud laughter await us, I want t get drunk before this night is over!"

Havel, for his part simply watched with his jaw hanging. This was unheard of, absurd, and illusion, **_blasphemous_ **! He spun on his heel in search for Gwyn's feminine son, thinking this was all an elaborate spell the God was testing but found no trance of the pale boy. The Imperious King turned his eyes back to his firstborn and attempted to call a servant to bring him his catalyst, so he could announce this to the entire capital. Unfortunately – or otherwise in his son's case – nothing but hot hair escaped the King's bearded mouth in a dry heave.

"_Phaahhhhh…"_

"Havel, what will it be? Are we going to drink or are you going to ogle your son's attraction to a suicidal cause?"

The Imperious King was broken out of his trance and turned to Gwyn who frowned at him halfway up the stairway. It seemed the Sunbringer also understood why he was exasperated. With a long sigh and a prayer to no one in particular, Havel made his way up the stairs with Gwyn and led them towards his study, casting a last glance over his shoulder toward Lithecore.

It was a know fact that Lithecore disliked anyone's company, be it humanoid or otherwise. He was avoided by all but his handmaidens that dressed him, his twin and Havel himself for the simple reason that he intimidated literally _everyone_ around him just by breathing. He had never shown an inkling of attraction to any gender or race since he spent his life reading over tomes and old texts in the castle's annex. Havel knew he put on an act to be nice when it was important and then complained about it later, but this was completely different.

His son, the firstborn by three minutes that repulsed _everyone_ around him, who _hated_ conversation and general mingling had **chosen** to _talk_ to the **_opposite sex_ **and ask for her hand to _dance _. The Imperious King didn't know whether to shout his congratulations to the boy or throw his glass at his head. The only cognitive ability the King had was to blankly point at a well-lit corridor and get dragged towards it by a taller man muttering about the youth of today.

By all right, Havel agreed he should be happy that he boy showed _some_ attraction to an actual _person_ and thank his many, _many_ prayers that he hadn't turned out to become an idolater of Seath, however, the only thing running around in the old King's mind was confusion and mild worry. He knew his son was tough despite having a weakness to colder weather but with odds stacked eight feet and four inches in front of him, he doubted his boy was as capable as he appeared. As such, the only question to enter his mind as they left the ball room was a simple one, one that possibly explained the reason for his firstborn's odd personality:

Was Lithecore just simply insane?

* * *

"Excuse me, _what_ did you just say?"

"Did you _not_ hear me on the _fifth_ time, Lord's Blade?"

Ornstein really didn't know what to do. His options were sadly rather limited when it came to these conflicting situations and Gough was being of no assistance – as usual – by opting to stand in the background and snicker whilst the left wing of the ball room's patrons decided to crowd around the five of them and stand aghast.

The prince of Ariamis hadn't done anything wrong that he could remember, it was just what he had _done_ that had sparked this slowly collapsing scenario to begin with. Admittingly, ex-bishop Havel's son – Lithecore was it – couldn't be blamed for a fallen glass of terrifyingly expensive wine or the fact that he was receiving a death stare from the greatest swordsman in history, but could the guy really not catch a hint? It wasn't that it was a known taboo or anything but come on, how could the heir _not_ know that he had stepped into dangerous territory by asking Ciaran to dance with him _in front_ of Artorias?

"Perhaps… you should stop asking altogether. This was the _fifth_ time."

Lithecore looked up into the steel-grey eyes of the Wolf Knight as he stared back just as impassively. Ornstein mentally sighed to himself as he watched the heir raise a hand to his chin and think for a moment. Good, at least he wouldn't have to intervene prematurely like he did everyday with his Lord Gwyn and Lady Gwynevere. Handling those two was already sentencing him to an early grave, did he _have_ to prevent his closest friend from beheading an innocent noble at the same time?

Lithecore tapped his chin a few times and turned his amber gaze to settle on something a bit more appealing, the Lord's Blade Ciaran. Her golden irises encased in a sea of marvellous black locked onto his and something akin to conflicted anxiousness began to form onto her features. Oh, he liked how she was able to hide her emotions so well. This was going to be fun. With all sincerity and purpose, Lithecore smiled at her softly, making the woman shift on her small feet before choosing to stare at the ground. His smirk grew.

"Hey," his grin immediately fell when he saw the angry face of Artorias again, quite positively miffed when the heir chose to ignore him and focus on the reason he was here in the first place. "did you not hear me?"

Lithecore stared back impassively and Ornstein breathed an audible sigh of relief. Gough just sniggered louder, his deep vocal cords causing soft vibrations to ripple across his skin. The would certainly back down now. He didn't like the fact that the usually unflappable Artorias was acting like a jealous maiden but at least he hadn't drawn the sword he had resting on his hip. Seriously, why in Gwyn's name had the fool chosen to bring _that_ to a _ball_ when they were accompanied by a small _army_? Well, at least the situation was diffused, and he could relax.

"I _heard_ you, I just don't understand what this conversation has anything to _do_ with _you_."

The Silver Knight Commander sighed and combed a hand through his messy red hair. Why the hell hadn't he taken that last glass of Frostbite before it had fallen to the ground so unceremoniously?

He watched as Artorias growled back and moved forward to tower over the young prince who simply raised an amused eyebrow in reply.

"What was that, human?"

"I believe _undead_ is the term you're looking for but _tell_ me, does that helm make you _deaf_ when removed or did you _really_ not _hear_ me?"

Ciaran offered a soft giggle into the palm of her hand which just made the Wolf Knight snarl into Lithecore's face.

_'Can't a guy get just one day of rest for once?' _Ornstein thought as the crowd around them grew bigger and Gough began to loud so loud that the windows shuddered. The Spear-wielding Knight sighed into his hands and watched the scene unfold further.

_'I wish I stayed in Lordran.'_

* * *

**Okay, I apologize for not including Priscilla in this chapter, I thought I would have gotten much further but it appears Chapter 4 will hold more value. As for why I haven't uploaded this chapter sooner, let me remind you all that I said that this fic won't see as much consistency in material as compared to Kingdom Come. Also, in no way was it because I forgot to upload this chapter two weeks ago. Nope, not that reason at all.**

**-_(*smacks Mihairu7) don't lie to the readers._ **

**Ouch! That bloody hurt.**

**-_then tell them the truth instead of some half-baked excuse._ **

**Fine! I didn't post this because of the bad signal in my area. Since quarantine I haven't even been able to check my damn e-mail.**

**-_see? Wasn't that better than lying?_ **

**It was. Sorry readers…**

**-_I'm sure they forgive you (not)_ **

**Hey, I heard that!**

**-_good, you were supposed to. Serves you right for uploading so late._ **

**Yeah, yeah… Anyways I've made a change to Chapter 2. If there are any errors in this chapter, I'll edit it as soon as my tunnel vision clears up, I've been wracking my brains writing up Argon's backstory in Kingdom Come as it is. Besides that… look out for more funny arguments and romance, it's coming soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 4 – First Impressions Aren't Everything, Right? **

**Ah, how wonderful it is to be writing more comedy for a change, the back-story I wrote for Argon took a long time to conjure up. Glad most of it is over now (*wipes brow).**

**Anywho, onto the main agenda, it is FINALLY time for some more lovely jolly comedy! Now, on with ze story!**

* * *

Usually crowds were a problem for her. It wasn't because she was socially awkward – something Uncle Gwyndolin would strongly argue about – or due to her limited time spent outside of Anor Londo as a whole. It was simply because she was different; physically, visually different.

Now, flashing people a few of her white scales and standing next to a shorter person as to not be embarrassed by the fact that she was the smallest deity alive wasn't the problem. Having crowds literally _part_ before you and then ogle at your considerably fluffy white tail was another matter entirely, it was like a kid being ostracised by other kids because he wore colourful clothing. It was plain ridiculous and downright embarrassing when your self-confidence didn't reach the tips of Lordran's spires.

Besides the splitting of a sea of people at the sudden appearance of her generally meek presence, Priscilla didn't enjoy people whispering under their breath to one another when she walked by. Call her mildly overdramatic but having almost every native that knew you gossip about you when you were standing _right there_ wasn't the best feeling in the world, she would bet her own stuffed doll nobody else would take a liking to it.

That being said, as the goddess stood in her light teal dress with her hair done up in pretty plat's that criss-crossed the sides of her head, she agreed that standing in a crowd in Ariamis was vastly more enjoyable – and extremely less stressful to her sensitive mind.

People that took note of her would bow or curtsy at the realization of another deity in their presence before moving on without a care in the world, the children that ran around the legs of the adults would look upon her and wave merrily instead of gingerly casting their eyes to and from her and their parents. Being around people that couldn't give a titanite shard who you were or where you came from was refreshing for the cross breed.

Even as she settled herself comfortably between a group of nobles and a gathering of Berenike knight's, the atmosphere was so warm, mellowed enough to make her doze off on her sharp-nailed feet. With a happy wag of her tail, Priscilla began to walk towards the dance floor, intent on watching the various nations spin and twirl in pairs of joyous celebration. She was approaching a tall man that seemed to tower over most of his peers and he turned his laughing face to her. His tanned cheeks were considerably red due to the wine he had drank thus far and on the breast pocket of his pressed suit sat the crest of a commonwealth nation she didn't recognize. Without wasting a moment of her time – not that she would have thought that of a stranger – he smiled even wider at her before moving to the side to let her through. Priscilla bowed in appreciation and walked past him, when she turned back his lanky form had disappeared with the bustling crowd around her.

How she loved that even the other nations that came to this land of wintery bliss acted as passive at the natives of Ariamis.

Her sensitive ears picked up on person sneezing and she turned her head to see another tall young man, about her age in a neat navy suit wipe his nose with a crisp handkerchief before staring at the falling snow with a glare. His dark hair obscured most of his face but her emerald orbs made out the curses his lips formed as he sneezed again.

Well that was odd, she had never really seen any local of the snowy kingdom react this way towards the cold that never ceased to fall here. In fact, this was her first time even seeing someone from Ariamis particularly grumpy, never mind utterly aggravated like this man seemed to be. She shrugged her pale shoulders, just being born in a land that snowed didn't guarantee you were resistant to it.

She turned her gaze to see a couple happily leaning on one another as they exited from the swirling vortex of dancers to take a small breather. The woman who was dressed in a pretty mink dress hung onto her partner for dear life as she gulped down pockets of air into her lungs. Her partner was laughing to himself as he led the two of them towards a table with an assortment of different coloured drinks resting in crystal glasses. The woman was saying something as she patted her blonde hair that seemed to have been thrown around whilst they danced, and the man nodded his head as she spoke before placing a glass in her hands and replying to her. As they woman began to fan herself with her free hand, her partner noticed and drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket before dutifully dabbing it against her brow as she gratefully thanked him before their conversation continued.

Priscilla smiled to herself. It was wonderful to be able to relax comfortably with someone like that, to be yourself and not have to keep up appearances. The act of courtship was one that broke all the rules of society and allowed two people to experience a bond deeper than the formal bondage of the current era. When she was younger and had the common obsession of being whisked away by a knight in armour, she had always imagined her prince to be a strong, kind man with stars in his eyes and the most impeccable talent for cooking – a talent she admitted not to possess even today.

However, when she absently thought about how difficult it was to come by a person that was both strong, handsome _and_ intelligent, her options were spread rather thin. The common man, whether he be human, undead, or otherwise, was unfortunately either dumb and strong or perverted and smart. As for the population of men that could cook, she knew of only a handful that even remotely knew how to boil and egg, never mind a proper meal. In fact, the only male she knew personally that had perfected the art of cooking was the obese, bald old butcher in the lowest level of Lordran that had a carnivorous appetite for raw meat. The goddess cringed at the thought, forget a man that could cook, it was difficult enough to find one that looked at her face for more than a full minute before his beady eyes dropped towards her chest.

Priscilla had made it known to everyone under the bright sun of Anor Londo that she refrained from getting married any time soon. It wasn't because she hated the opposite sex or that she preferred woman – which she didn't, her own gender would have been _more_ of a hassle to deal with – but because she didn't want to be rushed into something so sacred that would most likely destroy her only shot at the freedom she possessed. She had hated her father – if he could be called that – when he had experimented on her as a child, plucking scales from different parts of her body in an attempt to do something with a resource he would never be able to obtain. Seath had shared little to no love with her when he had even bothered to come out of his crystal-covered chamber. He may have had a tender spot for her excuse for a mother but after Priscilla had stopped producing scales he had quickly reverted to his old brooding ways and disappeared like the dead-beat he was.

Her mother was no different. The cross breed admitted that when she had been a little fuzzy ball of cuteness, she had received all the attention she could have wanted from Gwynevere. Although now she felt bitter when looking at her mother, she admitted to having fond memories of being coddled and held close to the woman's warm chest as Seath would stand there and observe what his genes had created. However, after the dragon had left their side and went his separate way, the Queen of Sunlight had also seen it necessary to do the same. Whilst Priscilla agreed trying to forget your significant other after breaking your heart must be extremely tough, she did _not_ see it right to look at the offspring she created like a terrible mistake and act like she didn't exist in the slightest. Of course, she didn't hate her parents, she was just disappointed in them. It was no good to fester such useless emotions for people that would never really care anyways. At least now she would be freed to do as she pleased now that she had Uncle Gwyndolin, Aunt Velka and even Grandfather Gwyn on her side – even if it was an odd feeling having this much love from god's that were anything but loving.

Freedom. She sighed at the thought. Whilst her blatant refusal to get married had stopped most nosey advisors of Anor Londo, it certainly hadn't prevented her drunkard mother from listening. The cross breed had known that Gwynevere hurt every time she caught sight of her, it was one of the reasons she had chosen the King of Baldor as her suitor so that she could be 'whisked away' to a country she didn't know, to become apart of a people she wasn't comfortable around, to further grow a man's family tree she didn't care for in the slightest.

Priscilla had been ecstatic when her grandfather had told her to be prepared to come to her favourite country in the world for a celebration, even if he did seem tense about coming here; his army and the Elite Four were more than enough proof. In an instant she had jumped at him and wrapped the bearded god in a warm embrace to thank him for the invite; if only she had seen the guilty look on his face as to why he had insisted she come.

Her mother was dense when it came to basically anything other than drinking and healing. So it had been the greatest surprise and shock to her cross-bred heart that the goddess had initiated a plan to drag her along to Ariamis, side track her with the beautiful kingdom as bait and then make her converse with her soon-to-be husband so that any space for rebellion would be purged completely. To say that had been the greatest thing her mother had done in the history of her existence would have been like saying Frampt's fleshy moustache was only mildly ugly; a complete understatement.

Still, it didn't make sense to arrange a marriage between her and the Knight-King. As far as she knew, Ricard was a man of little thought for romance in favour of swashbuckling for adventure. It was a surprise that he had even agreed to accept this marriage proposal – from a dense drunk no less – and ask that he be able to meet her at Ariamis in the first place.

Aunt Velka words to her before she rode off on one of her massive crows still swam around in her head but she refused to entertain the idea. It wasn't that easy to find someone that fit the bill of what she was looking for, even if she _did_ suddenly feel the urgent need to settle down and knit scarves for the remainder of her terribly long life on a lonely night. Besides, _if_ there was even the slightest chance of there being a man that was her age – because she wouldn't marry any old goat – that possessed a brain, decent strength mentally and physically, that could make her life the happiest she would ever know; then he was either in a fairy-tale or on the other side of the world.

Priscilla noticed a slight disturbance on the dancefloor and observed another tall man with his back to her as he dropped his quite tipsy partner before sneezing loudly.

Again, she had thought the locals of Ariamis were all resistant to the cold weather. She shrugged her shoulders again at the notion that she was most mistaken before narrowing her eyes at the woman the sneezing man was picking up off the ground as he stuttered out apologies tiredly. The woman looked up at the tired man with droopy onyx eyes and she allowed him to pick her with, wrapping her burnt hands around his pale neck with a drunk smile.

_'Wasn't that the Wi-'_

"Ah! Lady Priscilla, our apologies for arriving so late."

The cross breed whipped her head forward to see an annoyed King Ricard flanked by a guard of Baldor and an advisor to the throne. The men flanking the shorter King were dressed in regular ball-attire whilst Ricard had a rather long cloak on top of what looked like a beige bunny waistcoat and matching trousers. By the looks of irritation on his face, it was clear he didn't fancy formal events like this one or the scratchy fabric he wore.

"Vern, how many times do I have to say it, I do not wish to be mar-"

"Yes, marred by the lateness of our arrival, I completely understand!" the advisor cut him short and bowed quickly. The King of Baldor scowled as his guard chuckled quietly, a large shield across his back despite wearing a suit.

"I will try to make the arrangements for our departure sooner in the future so that you can speak with the Lady Priscilla immediately, my King."

Ricard sighed, a hand to his neatly combed brown hair as he nodded tiredly. He hadn't wanted to come tonight, he had even gone as far as to order everyone in the Kingdom to go and enjoy themselves as he practiced with his rapier more. Trust his annoying godfather of a main advisor to take matters into his own sneaky hands and send a royal letter to the Imperious King stating their attendance.

What was worse was the fact that he not only had to attend the event – or risk upsetting Ariamis – but had to meet with Lordran's cross breed Princess, the daughter of Queen Gwynevere. It didn't bother him that he would have to talk with her, he found talking to others quite enjoyable, he just hated the fact that the only reason they were meeting for the first time was because of some rushed agreement to be betrothed to a woman he barely knew at all.

Marriage wasn't something he had placed high on his to-do-list and he found that waiting for 'the one' to come was a better strategy than marrying wrong and suffering, although he had to admit this was just ridiculous. Where was the time for bonding with his 'wife' when he was too busy marching his men over seas and through unexplored caves in search of nothing but the exhilaration of adventure and mystery? Besides that, where was the step in this whole arrangement where he would be asked for _his_ opinion on the matter?

He supposed such a thing would be a foolish question given that Vern was always as tight-lipped when it came to matters only revolving around _his_ personal life. Where was the personal space, the privacy to just be him dammit? He should have ripped that proposal for an arranged marriage with Lordran before his annoying godfather had had the chance to peek over his shoulder like the nosey old man he was. At least then he wouldn't be forcing an innocent goddess with her entire life ahead of her to that of a lonely spouse. Where was that age-old pride of Anor Londo anyways that stated only divinity could marry divinity? Had he missed the day when they tossed that one into the flames of Izalith? Curse his terrible luck.

So, with an apologetic smile towards the woman he was supposed to marry, Ricard extended his hand in greeting to the woman, "Good evening Princess, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." If his godfather thought she was 'the one' for him, then he would see it for himself. Even if she _did_ turn out to be the woman he was looking for, however, he doubted she agreed with this arrangement. Her mother _was_ the infamous drunkard of Lordran after all, no way in hell would the goddess standing before him openly agreed to marry him when basically the entire world knew his reputation for staying in his own country for less than a few weeks at a time.

Priscilla smiled kindly at the Knight-King and shook his hand in hers.

"The pleasure is mine, Sir Ricard. It is such an honour to see you here tonight instead of on another wonderful adventure of yours."

Ricard smiled, it seemed she understood his predicament better than he originally thought. What a clever woman, maybe she _was_ 'the one' for him. "Well, when I thought about the invitation from Ariamis, how could I refuse? My men deserve a night away from galivanting for seasons at a time." She shared a laugh with him and he took a moment to look at her gentle features.

She was definitely attractive, and it didn't bother him that she possessed the genes of an Everlasting Dragon either. He was undead, so he couldn't really discriminate, his kind was seen as the lowest of the low for going hollow anyways. She had a good head on her shoulders and she certainly knew how to dress if that elegant dress was anything to go on. Perhaps he would entertain his annoying advisor and see where this played out? If he found her more interesting and decided he actually wanted to settle down, he could attempt to convince her to agree to this arranged marriage. He wasn't holding his breath, however.

He knew he wasn't the most handsome undead, but he would certainly treat her like the goddess she was should she choose to be with him, he could guarantee her that at least.

"Did you hear that Yeager? She said she's honoured to meet him! This marriage was the _perfect_ arrangement!" Squealed Vern in uncontained delight as he grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and took a big gulp. "I'll get the preparations for the ceremony done immediately after tonight. Yeager! Call one of the server's, ask them if they can bring more of this delicious win-"

Vern was about to say when he gave the glass to the Baldor guard and fainted onto the floor. Yeager sniffed the wine glass before muttering something about blood drops.

Ricard cringed and shook his head as his guard sniggered some more. Bugger his previous thoughts, this was going to be a disaster of an engagement.

_'This… is going to be a long night,' _Priscilla echoed the King's sentiments as she smiled at him politely.

* * *

"What are your intentions, undead?"

"If you were paying _attention_ you would have noticed that my _intentions_ have already been played out." Lithecore said as he twirled the Lord's Blade around before gently pulling her body against his and continuing their dance. "And for _umpteenth_ time, my name is Lithecore. _Undead_ is my race, not my name."

Ciaran scoffed at him, "You expect me to believe that's your real name?"

"You think I'd _lie_ to someone that doesn't _know_ what a bottomless box is?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and locked her golden irises with Lithecore's amber pools. His while his pale face was a mask of innocence his eyes said otherwise as they both sped up to the increased tempo of the violin's melody.

The tall undead had come to her and the other Elite Knights of Gwyn to offer his welcome to the kingdom of Ariamis. Whether he had intentionally left a single glass of Blood-Drop on the tray in his hands or honestly hadn't realized he didn't have three more glasses to offer wasn't something to worry about. What was the problem was his approach towards her in particular.

Usually she wouldn't entertain someone who thought they had a chance of wooing her, she cared little for useless attempts at flirtation. What had made her question the man, however, was how quickly he had made Artorias – the usually stoic of them all – lose his cool and abruptly knock the tray out of his hands as if he were insulting them with a glass of poison.

She couldn't remember what he had said exactly or how he had managed to get into Artorias' head but the heir of Ariamis had just so easily instigated a fight with one of the best Knight's in the entire world over a simple glass of wine and the mentioning of this 'bottomless' box – she cursed herself for not paying attention to the giant smith in Anor Londo when he explained these things to her.

But what had shocked most of their quartet to silence was when the heir had then turned to her as if forgetting Artorias was even there, stepping closer to her and asking if she would dance with him. It had been such a shock that the Wolf Knight had sputtered on the spot, Ornstein had gaped, Gough had burst out in laughter and she had dumbly nodded without a second thought before being led to the spinning mass of dancers.

Ciaran had known who the undead was – how could she not when she always kept a trained eye on Lord Gwyn and those he fraternized with – but hadn't truly understood what people had meant when they mentioned the man was 'deviantly cunning'. Now that she had experienced her first encounter with the man, however, she agreed his title didn't do him justice.

That was how she had found herself pressed against the front of his navy suit. She noted how her silk dress matched his apparel in colour and briefly wondered if the heir just wanted to use her to prevent being hassled by the many single woman dotted around the hall they currently danced in. It was a crass thought – even if the person she thought of was worse – but she would have been a fool not to notice the number of young women currently glaring at her from the side-lines of the ring of dancers.

While Ciaran hadn't really entertained the idea of romance – not really paying attention to whatever it was she felt for Artorias – she had to admit that the firstborn of Ariamis was quite handsome indeed. His pale features were more prominent than any native of the Northern country she had seen before and his black hair did well to contrast against it. He was taller than most humans or undead she had seen, he was only a head shorter than Artorias and Ornstein after all, and his lean build was a thing most woman drifted towards with longing gazes. Personally, she agreed, a toned masculine body was far more appealing to a beefy one with bulging muscles and over-stretched skin.

But the most alluring feature of the heir was his eyes. She had heard that ex-bishop Havel possessed deep brown irises beneath his rocky helm, and his wife was no different in that regard; thus, the sight of his son's amber pools was quite a shock to people. She just saw it as a redeeming feature for his cold attitude.

It was clear to her that Lithecore was just putting up appearances with neutral words and a forced smile that looked as if it would suit a basilisk better. Whilst he played the perfect actor to keep others unaware, Ciaran was certain Lord Gwyn had also noticed it. It was difficult not to sniff out a grand ruse when you formed them yourself back home.

And yet, for all this undeads ploys she still couldn't understand the reason he had forced himself to participate in social suicide. She knew his type probably repulsed the idea of physical interaction. So why had he risked his image, life and reclusive nature just for her?

"I'm not using you keep away the _hounds_, if you were _wondering_."

Ciaran looked up at the heir with surprise plastered on her smaller face. How had he known what she was thinking, was he able to read minds?

"You kept _glancing_ at the glaring women dressed to the _nine's_." he followed up and recognition filled her eyes. So he was also analytical besides being crafty, how interesting.

"Then what are you using me for? Surely, you could have chosen one of those 'hounds' to entertain you?"

"Have you ever heard the _phrase_ 'venture into the _unknown_'?" he placed his hands on her hips and raised her into the air before spinning around. "I may be a _recluse,_ but I _do_ tend to explore _unchartered waters_." He finished and lowered his arms so that her heels could gently touch the ground.

"Why do you speak like that?" Lithecore looked at her curiously before wrapping an arm around her waist again. He had been speaking in that soft, raspy voice from the moment he had introduced himself. Whilst she understood some people were just born that way, this man seemed to purposefully enunciate certain words and phrases when he spoke, as if he wanted people to catch some underlying meaning only he knew about.

She watched his eyebrow lift as a proper smile graced his fake disposition. It wasn't another forced one either, this one was real compared to the rest; cold, judging, calculating. The _real_ character he possessed shone through the small crack he allowed to open before he replied.

"Why do you _look_ like that?"

She allowed a smile of her own to show. He was cheeky, she liked that.

They continued to dance in silence, enjoying the sounds the musicians created with polished wood, thin strings and matching bows. He still had that cruel smile on his face and she was still holding it with her own as Artorias and the many maidens glared at the two of them, respectively. Whilst she felt bad for leaving the Wolf Knight to brew in his defeat – if you could call it that – she found that spending her time twisting and twirling with the cocky undead instead of standing near her Lord for the remainder of the night was rather pleasant. Come to think of it, where _had_ Lord Gwyn gone to? She couldn't see him or ex-bishop Havel anywhere.

Deciding to look at the crowd, it seemed, was a mistake on her part as she was assaulted by the throngs of annoyed woman glaring at her, and intrigued nobles from various countries that took an interest in her and the Ariamis prince. The Lord's Blade wasn't afraid of such looks, she was a trained assassin after all, but she had also spent most of her years of service in the shadows away from such prying eyes. To suddenly feel them trained on her unarmoured person like the crosshairs of a Silver Knight's Dragonbow was making her quite… anxious.

"I take it _crowds_ aren't your favourite _either_?" Ciaran diverted her gaze back to Lithecore, her rapidly rising heartbeat calming down slightly. He was reading her mind again, but for the life of her she had to say she didn't mind. "Perhaps I should have chosen a place less _occupied_ to have you all to _myself_, _hmm_?"

Her golden eyes widened partially at his implication, but she didn't take the bait. If he was smart enough able to rile up the greatest swordsman in the world with words alone he was kind enough in the sense that carnal desires didn't fuel him. With a small hint of mischief lighting up her sense of adventure she smiled at him before resting her head against his chest. She felt his body heat and smelt the lingering's of black current on his breath. She wondered if he also had a sweet tooth or if it was some wine he had drunk.

"And if you did choose somewhere with less company, where would you take me to, Prince Lithecore?"

The undeads smile grew wider as he rested his chin on top of her blonde locks, noticing an irate Knight of Gwyn staring daggers at him next to a chuckling Gough. He had to admit that for the first time in his life, this woman seemed to tickle his fancy the more he conversed with her. Besides her knack of thoroughly entertaining him amidst this boring evening of mundane conversation's, he really liked the way his name sounded on her tongue.

_'Perhaps I should prolong this enigmatic feeling further?'_

They swayed with the final notes of the song's fortissimo, their colours melding into one as they held each other close, oblivious to the people, things and space around them. The Ariamis firstborn flicked his gaze towards the many angered bachelorettes that were preparing to rush over to his side for a chance to let their deranged fantasies play out. They had probably all felt outraged that they hadn't made a move sooner to ask him to dance, and spellbound that he had personally asked someone _other_ than them for that very action. He didn't particularly care really. Whilst he had promised his father to behave tonight it didn't mean he was inclined to follow that advice after the necessary political arrangements had been made.

It had always been about what this grand opening would mean for his snowy home from the beginning, this sudden out of character move with the Lord's Blade had just been sheer luck – a surprise he was quite grateful for, nonetheless. He had only chosen to grace the visitors with his ghostly presence for the purpose of finalising various deals and trade agreements with small countries that relied on their land's harvest to get by. After he had completed his duty rounding up the necessary contracts there was no reason for him to remain the kind and sexually appealing heir many women saw him as, he would be free to turn them down as he saw fit; Ella's daughters included.

He had certainly _not_ accounted for this encounter with the Lightning gods Elite Knights. He agreed that they were a colourful bunch; comprised of a giant, two demi-gods and a Lord's Blade, however, he hadn't known such… pleasantly surprising circumstances would play out.

Call him contradictory but when he had seen the small woman with thick blond hair and deep eyes that turned his interest in her up to eleven, he just couldn't resist antagonizing the Wolf Knight that was basically marking his territory whenever another male walked by. It had been so amusing that he just had to create a scene, shatter their fleeting sense of peace and then taken the mutt's prize from him within the blink of an eye.

They shiny lion wouldn't have had the backbone to oppose him, he was probably too busy cleaning up after that busty goddess' screw ups. As for the gargantuan bird with similar-coloured eyes to his own, he was more likely to cheer for him as he danced with the Lord's Blade rather than get involved. His eyes may have been as calculating as Lithecore's, but the giant was one more led by comedy than drama; he approved of such a notion.

Once the song he and Ciaran were dancing to was over, the masses were bound to rush toward them like hungry hordes of hollows jail-broken from the Asylum. With that in mind, Lithecore knew he had a small window to truly make this uncertain feeling of attraction flourish by sweeping the Lord's Blade in his arms and off her feet. His grin split his face as he thought about it; what better way to spice up the mood by removing his luck altogether?

The heir lifted his chin off Ciaran's head so that his lips could reach her right ear. "Perhaps somewhere you and I could escape this… _drab_ atmosphere. I was thinking the snow-capped _annex_ as a place to continue our _dance_?" He felt Ciaran smile against his shirt before she lifted her head to stare into his eyes, her golden irises glinting with mischief amongst a sea of obsidian. She replied as the violinist removed his bow from his instrument.

"Please lead the way."

As the plethora of dancers stopped to thank their partners for the dance, Lithecore placed his hand on the small of her back and pressed her flush against him. The Lord's Blade's eyes widened but she allowed him to continue as he drew a small talisman from behind his back and waved it around them. A small spell circle began to form around their feet as a glowing light filled it. Ciaran heard him mutter an incantation and a smile lit her face. The snow prince was definitely one for trouble if he planned to use _that_ spell here in the middle of the ball room.

Lithecore glanced up to see a herd of hungry maiden's rush after them along with an obviously mad Artorias. With another cruel smile adorning his pale features he winked at the Knight before both he and Ciaran faded before their eyes.

The female stampede and Wolf Knight all stopped dead in their tracks before the realization that their respective prey had departed hit home, and they let out a frustrated whine. There would be no finding of either of them once they decided to escape. As the maidens all parted, Artorias looked around the room before growling loudly.

"This means war, Lithecore."

* * *

The open garden of Ariamis was filled with many beautiful florae despite the growing cold that bit through the clothes of many a visitor and local that strode through the swirling icy air. Not a flake of snow touched the green space or had the chance to wet a single petal of the bright orchids standing proud and erect before the raining specks of white before it. There had been rumours that the servants of the Northern country had created a special incantation to ward off the season's effects so that a wide array of foreign plants could be left to freely grow, and if one were to visit the famous 'Timeless Garden' they would come realize that the rumour was closer to the truth than they knew.

Even as the tall spires of the castle's architecture was tipped with virgin snow, the maintained olive hedges and ferns curved around the walls of the garden like protective arms, whilst colours varying from bright begonias to shaded violets dotted the open space with a natural beauty and airy scent. Around stone seats built into the floors were gatherings of deep green clovers of miniature stature, outlining the thick legs like a type of glowing moss.

There were even mementos of the country's own delicate daisies and other plant life. Why, if one had to turn their amazed gaze toward the elegantly carved fountain, they would come across the aconite's settled comfortably near its edge whilst snowdrops decorated its water tier's like filigree on a maiden's wedding gown. Despite the fact that the fountain's water was frozen solid, it created a mesmerising effect on the flowers contained within its ice, perfectly personifying the timelessness of the garden's name.

While the garden itself was a beauty beyond beauties to behold that perchance even rivalled Lordran's glorious morning sun, Argon found it more of a necessity to actually rest on the solid ground it provided rather than admire it.

He had _finally_ managed to worm his way out of that drunk Witch's grasp. At first, he had taken her seriously when she said his father wouldn't be able to keep up with her due to his age; thinking that Morwena was just more agile due to her being a god. Now he just realized that the woman – as stunning as she was for a century-and-something old Great Lord – was simply an energetic drunk that had near-unlimited stamina. He had gained a new respect for his grumpy father when he thought about how he must have suffered Morwena's wrath when _she_ had been in her prime.

When you got down to it, a drawn-out dance with a woman who had no control over her hips – that somehow still maintained their youthful curves after birthing seven children – shouldn't have been that wearing for the Ariamis heir, and honestly it wasn't. What _was_ taxing for his body and heart was the unexpected turmoil that had followed.

He had known the woman held a soft spot for him in her heart due to being so close to Ariamis, the Imperious King and Aunt Ella; so he had assumed that when she had asked him to dance, she would have also tried to sway him to agree to the absolute treachery that was his arranged marriage. Imagine his shock when she had brought _all_ daughters of chaos – Quelana excluded – to share a dance with him so that he could, what was it she had said; 'weigh his choices closely'? He hadn't known whether to snap a Homeward bone or smile and reluctantly follow the god's instructions. Because of his weakness towards the opposite sex he had unfortunately chosen the latter. He should have snapped a bone instead.

But that hadn't been the reason why he was currently prone against the floor, his neatly combed hair a mess of black tendrils strewn across his face with sweat soaking his previously crisp shirt. No, it had been when he had decided to take the _hand_ of each of those equally maddening women.

True to his observation and information network, the first two gossiping sisters had annoyed him into insanity by badgering him about whether it was true that he was more attracted to men rather than women. After he had calmly explained and cleared up four _very_ incorrect theories about that particular rumour they had then demanded him to disclose his chest, waist and height measurements so that they could create a replica of chaos fire to snuggle against at night. He barely knew what they were like behind closed doors without his spies in Izalith watching, no way he was going to give them the recipe to his wondrous body!

Then he had been forced to dance with the chunibyo of the family… or would have if she had even remotely known how to dance. Sure, her face was pretty nice to stare at on a rainy day and she smiled so brightly Gwynevere would be challenged for who was the real Queen of Sunlight, but he hadn't understood a word she had spoken. It wasn't too much trouble to teach her how to do a clumsy waltz but listening to the woman rant about the 'kingdom of the wicked, locked by the third heavenly tier of a level-twelve astral configuration' had just been plain exhausting; and what the hell did she mean he needed to be 'banished from this world'? If anything, Shiva needed to stop putting ideas into her head so that she could properly learn how to eat an oyster correctly. That's right, he had said it. How could he not when the girl had tried to _speak_ to the starter via Morse-code instead of swallowing it in one gulp. He had nearly rolled up his sleeves and given her his version of the Dark Flame when she began narrating about some invisible boundary line criss-crossing her would and his.

Was she dense? _Of course_ there was an invisible boundary line separating the two countries. It was called _magic_ for a reason.

At least his casual slow-dance with the quiet Quelaan had gone down peacefully. The girl was just as doe-eyed and flustered around him like she always was, the silver-haired beauty. Argon had to give her props for being the only lady his heart actually felt some tingle for. The chaos daughter was kind, loving with children and an absolute pleasure to talk to whenever he saw her, and she knew about undead medicine and humanity like the back of her hand. Quite frankly she ticked all the boxes for him, if he were to write up his idea of the perfect woman. It was just a shame she was the sister of that black-haired, arachnid loving, grotesque sword-wielding brute of an Izalith-dweller, Quelaag. The sheer downer to his enjoyable swaying with her polar opposite.

She was so bad, in fact, that his comfortable fortissimo turned into a sudden tango so loud he nearly had a heart-attack on the spot before Quelaag jerked him to some demonic crescendo.

Don't get him wrong, he liked Quelaag just fine as a person; she was endearing and level-headed in every scenario. What made her drop from his eligible list of potential waifu's, however, was her hard-on for Quelaan in the form of an intense sister-complex; the enemy trait of all men. He swore the woman had never seemed more bipolar than the moment he had decided to hug her pale-bodied twin in greeting. He understood the protectiveness siblings could have, especially twins since he was in the same boat; but come on! Understand that the 'little sister' you adore like your first bite of chocolate was grown up and independent now.

As if his thrashing by the Valkyrie of a princess was bad enough, Argon had also been blessed by Morwena's sudden appearance asking for round two of their flurried foxtrot – which he had accidently dropped her when he sneezed before blaming it on his exhaustion. Although, after his emotional rollercoaster with her daughter's over boiling lava without any handlebars, he had been too confused to refuse; which was the complete detailed explanation of why he was smack-dab on the Timeless Garden's floor in the first place.

As the spent undead lay panting on the green ground, the sudden need to parch his scratchy throat became apparent and he groaned in annoyance. His body was too tired to get up on his bruised feet, traverse through throngs of visitors whilst avoiding hungry maidens, to then drink from a glass of wine that was no doubt potent enough to kill an armoured boar with a single drop.

_'Stupid drinks table and all the matured Ariamis wine.'_

He lifted his head with utmost difficulty and his amber gaze settled on the fountain a few feet away. He knew drinking from a garden's fountain of all places was not only unsanitary but also just damn idiotic, but he truly didn't care at the moment; his throat required sustenance.

So, after licking his dry lips, Argon belly-crawled forward, an insatiable desire to drink from that fountain of youth before he died of old age. He began to see black spots in the corner of his vision and he powered on, determined to seek his prize.

_Finally_, when he thought he would fall to dehydration then and there, the adrenaline in his body allowed him to lean over with his hand and plunge his fingers into the life-line's basin with glee. Or he would have if the entire damn fountain weren't frozen to solid ice. He had forgotten that this was still Ariamis. Despite this garden being protected from withering with spells, the water in the decorative fountain was still vulnerable to the season's effects. He was stupid not to realize it sooner.

Argon groaned again at his predicament. Ice was better than nothing. He picked his body up further to lean against the rim of the fountain before making a fist and punching the solid surface hard. The punch wasn't as strong as it normally was due to his fatigue, so he curled his lip in annoyance and punched it again. He saw his knuckle leave tiny spider-web cracks in the ice and hammered his fist against it a few more times.

When he heard a definite _crack_ sound, the heir immediately dove his slightly bruised hand into the fountain and grabbed the large chunk of ice he had managed to break before putting it to his mouth and gnawing on it desperately.

It wasn't nice knowing you were munching on frozen plant water but it didn't taste any different than a normal glass of the stuff from a fresh mountain spring.

Argon sighed in satisfaction as his warmer mouth turned the solid chips of ice to liquid and he gulped it down gladly, dropping down to rest his back against the base of the fountain as he revelled in his snack.

He was beginning to break bigger pieces from the chunk of ice so he could have larger mouthfuls of water to drink, when he noticed something in his periphery. At first, he was just going to pass it off as the same black dots lazily dancing around in his vision or some flower near the entrance of another door when he heard the supposed 'spot' giggle.

Argon froze and mechanically turned his head to the sound like a door turning on rusted hinges when he came face to giggling face with a woman in a beautiful teal dress, her white hair done up cute plats that showed her rosy cheeks and startling emerald eyes.

The prince dropped the ice he was devouring to stare wide-eyed at the woman, his jaw dropped and hand frozen in mid-air as the maiden continued to laugh at his undoubtedly comedic actions. She pulled her hand away from her face and he noticed how her dressed outlined her breath-taking figure, the light from the castle illuminating her like some heavenly ray.

Argon involuntarily gulped from his position against the fountain, appearance as dishelvished as ever.

"Well h-hello there…"

* * *

The goddess sighed like she had just been told there was no more fancy salmon in the kitchen for her to indulge in.

Honestly, she should have expected a rushed marriage proposal to end up being disastrous. She just didn't realize that when it came to the god's of Lordran making such arrangements, these situations would turn into plain old pandemonium instead.

Ricard was a great King, and an even nicer person at heart. He always looked for more comfortable and less conflicting solutions to various problems; like when he calmly put his advisor in a subtle choke-hold for attempting to call Lordran a sub-par country as compared to the devoted bloodlines of Baldor. She swore, that godfather of his had some serious issues with pride, especially when he was drunker than the Witch of Izalith, if that were even possible.

Regardless of his actions or Ricard's shy manner, it was clear a marriage between the two of them wouldn't work in the slightest. Yes, they were both kind at heart, level-headed and not ones to mince their words; they were basically the opposites of one another. While Sir Vern had argued that in many cases opposites attract – he had argued his point of view at every flaw she raised in fact – she just didn't see how the same would be the case for two people that would hardly see one another, interact or ever reach a higher plateau besides friendship with how their lives were wired.

She was devoted to her studies in rich history, strategy and nature; whilst he was forever endowed with the duty to journey the world in search of new dimensions to explore. Now, whilst their hobbies and daily activities may have _seemed_ similar, they couldn't be anything close to being the same. Even poor Ricard had understood as much, the many times he had silenced his gushing advisor with a punch to the gut was proof enough.

Besides them being incompatible, they both felt no attraction, no spark that all those over-exaggerated stories spoke about. Understandably, the point of an arranged marriage was that you weren't really supposed to love the other person, but at least there would be _some_ redeeming features you would find in your forced spouse-to-be, right? Quite frankly all the two of them felt for each other was common friendship, he had even said so and closed the matter with a long gulp of wine. She knew it would be extremely difficult to tell her mother she and Ricard wouldn't be marrying after all – the King had said it wouldn't work himself – but she also revelled in the chance to be free again from the bondage of such unnecessary rituals. She didn't need a man to be happy anyways, and if there really wasn't a Mr. Right for her to find in the future then she would be happy to grow old and single, even if it would mildly hurt the small part of her that wanted companionship. That being said, right now she was too tired to think of that possibility.

However, the reason Priscilla was ragged from all that talking – she meant arguing with an old man that refused to believe the truth slapping him in the face with a plated gauntlet – was due the stampede of lustful women that had tried to turn her into half-dragon roadkill.

She had known that this event was more than just a welcoming party that Ariamis decided to host. It was a platform for multiple networking levels beginning with alliances and peace treaties for the snowy country due to its influence over most of the undead race. Her 'discussion' with Baldor was another level on that broad platform. Many countries from far and wide had come here for many purposes other than to drink fine wine, dance to soul-fulfilling music and admire the falling snow. The single princes and princesses were here to find decent suitors and future brides.

That was an honourable endeavour that she agreed with since it truly was difficult to find 'the one' in your own country, so the act of moving to a bigger pond with a diverse community of fish seemed more appropriate given that the pretence was a celebration.

However, the goddess still couldn't understand how one man with long black hair, a navy suit and pale skin had caused so much calamity that even Knight Artorias himself had tried to smush her under his large shoe in order to get a piece of the action. She knew the swordsman had a thing for Grandfather Gwyn's Lord's Blade, Ciaran, and she had seen the pale-skinned man dancing with her, but for something that simple to cause a _stampede_? It was rather ridiculous.

So, she had decided to take refuge in any room that didn't possess desperate women with raging hormones. Honestly, she should have just escaped the castle and decided to pet one of the drakes Ariamis' painting guardians rode, they would have made for better company too.

Priscilla sighed and opened her eyes to look at the room she had entered. She hadn't had the chance to explore the castle mainly due to the fact that it was always busy with bustling merchants and scholars from every corner of the four cardinal points. It was true that Ariamis was one of the few countries that allowed its people to frequent the royal building whenever they pleased, but how could one even do that when most of the ground floor was packed with visitors and guards?

As her slitted-eyes focused on the green covering the floor she currently stood on, the goddess caught the sweet smell of something familiar and blinked in confusion.

_'That's odd,' _she thought with a frown, _'I thought lilacs couldn't grow in snowy countries like Ariamis?'_

Priscilla looked forwards towards where the scent was most strong before she finally noticed the garden she had walked into. Her eyes widened as her joy skyrocketed to cloud-nine.

She had heard people talking about the snowy country's Timeless Garden but had thought it to just be a rumour. There was no possible way a garden with that many species of plant life could be bred in one area, she would know since she was an avid horticulturist herself. There was also no way such a secluded nation on the edge of the world would have the knowledge to create a spell so advanced not even Oolacile and Scholars of the Dragon Academy could follow up with. It was just too much of a fairy-tale to believe, and yet… here the garden of legend lay before her sparkling eyes.

She saw multitudes of roses cultivated in a single corner of the expansive room in blood red and pure white. Daisies crowned the rich bed of soil towards another part, surrounded by tall hedges of hydrangeas, and so much _more_ for her eager eyes to witness as she took a tentative step forward.

It was beautiful here, filled with pleasant smells and wonderful colours all placed the right way. She dared to look up and was amazed by the falling snow that stopped metres above her head as if some invisible wall had been erected to protect the innocent flora before her. It didn't stop there, however; it seemed the entire room was actually protected by the invisible wall. It was only then that she realized that the 'room' she was standing in that resembled Darkroot Wood was actually an extended balcony of sorts.

A glance towards the end of this planted forest reaffirmed her suspicions when she saw more snow falling just inches away from a small cherry blossom tree. What was also quite interesting was the fact that despite the garden being situated outside, the freezing cold that usually accompanied the falling snow didn't creep into this place. Instead, it felt more like a chilly draught had settled over the space she stood in.

_'How interesting…'_

If the welcome the Imperious King had put on for all the people visiting today hadn't been enough to warrant deep satisfaction, then the legendary Timeless Garden and its rumoured spell surely did. A smile lit her face.

She was definitely going to explain all of this to her Aunt so that she could be amazed by the things Ariamis had to offer. She knew the goddess loved the snowy country and that they had built her a statue near the entrance into the capital but surely, she hadn't been privy to the wonders that lay inside the castle walls.

Priscilla was about to approach a comfortable looking stone bench placed near a cute mulberry bush when her ears heard the desperate crunching of what sounded like ice. The goddess turned her gaze towards a tall fountain with elegant carvings into the stone, its water's frozen despite the lowered temperature. She wondered why that was so since the icy weather was kept outside this magical bubble when she noticed a man resting with his back against the fountain's basin.

He was out of breath and obviously tired, his raven-hair that had once been neatly combed back was a mess of disarrayed stands that went into his face. He looked human, or perhaps undead; and she saw how his deep amber eyes contrasted nicely with his pale skin.

From his skin tone alone, it was clear that he was a local of Ariamis but that didn't explain what he was doing here instead of inside the great hall. She didn't get the chance to think that far ahead when she realized the chunk of ice he was too busy gnawing was the reason for the small noise she had heard before.

She stared at him curiously. He was focused on eating ice that seemed to come from the fountain's frozen water – she didn't know of any other place he would have gotten that much ice from inside the castle. He was so engrossed in just eating it that he couldn't even notice that she was less than ten metres away from him.

Though a display like this would usually have made her take cautious steps back and walk away, Priscilla for some reason, felt an unnatural pull towards the strange man; as if her curiosity and general interest in something so absurd had taken the forefront of her mind and made her draw closer to him.

She gazed at his ravenous face again as he hungrily munched on ice that was splintering and breaking in different directions as he bit into it. She couldn't really help herself as a small giggle left her mouth and she covered her mouth with a hand.

She looked at the man again and the urge to laugh became stronger, forcing her lips into a wide smile. She really couldn't help it as she giggled at the strange sight again. It was just too funny.

The man seemed to hear her before he froze, slowly turned his head her way, dropped his chunk of ice and gasped as if he had been caught doing something devious. She couldn't contain the emotions swirling within her when she saw his surprised amber eyes widen to the point of popping out of their sockets as she burst out laughing at his predicament.

He offered her a small, embarrassed smile before he tried to speak.

"Well h-hello there…"

"Oh, please do forgive me. I couldn't help but laugh." she replied wiping a stray tear from her eye. She hadn't laughed like that in ages. "You just seemed so engrossed in your task."

She saw his pale cheeks take on some colour before he let out a nervous chuckle. Though she had just met the man, she liked the way his eye's crinkled when he smiled.

"I didn't imagine anyone coming here, never mind someone like yourself." The man said, giving her a breathless nod. He still seemed quite winded.

"My name is Argon." Priscilla smiled and managed a curtsy despite her case of the giggles.

"Priscilla."

Argon nodded before his eyes drifted toward the abandoned piece of ice on the grassy floor. She followed his gaze before it locked with hers and he gave her a sheepish smile.

The goddess decided to have a proper look at him now that she had his undivided attention. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit, his coat open whilst his waistcoat seemed to be as dishelvished as his hair was from all the movement he had probably done. He had a lean, athletic build that matched well with his angular face.

The contours of his jaw were illuminated by the cool light the Timeless Garden brought. His pale cheeks didn't have a single trace of stubble on them and his eyebrows were dark like his hair. Lastly, she stared into his bright eyes.

She had seen many different types of odd eye-colours over the years. Sir Ornstein's fiery gaze, Lady Ciaran's black and gold pools, even her uncle's vermillion eyes behind that golden crown that hid his otherwise mesmerizing gaze. But despite all the people she had come to know with unorthodox personalities that matched their equally different eyes, the warm yet cold glow of Argon's amber depths seemed so much more alluring than anything else she had come to know.

It was almost as if he were casting a powerful illusion on her by just staring.

Whilst she continued to get lost in his eyes, Argon took a moment to upraise the woman before him, and quite frankly, he was enjoying what he was seeing.

Priscilla had beautiful white locks for hair that looked almost as soft as the falling snow. The sides of her head were done up in small criss-crossing plat's that looked as adorable as she did. Her face was heart-shaped, unblemished and looked smooth to the touch. If he weren't currently disabled on the floor, he could have tried to pinch those slightly red cheeks of hers to see what reaction he would have gotten.

Another thing that caught his observant eye was her eyebrows – or were they tiny scales – that were situated just above her glittering emerald orbs. Her nose was shaped like a small button just bigger than his thumb and her lips were plush and rosy. When she smiled he saw small ivory fangs standing out like proud pillars of polished marble. He had the strange urge to trace his finger over them but stopped when it started to sound a bit too perverse. This woman may have been wildly attractive to him but that didn't mean he had the right to act like the hollowed undead the Asylum kept in its belly. Besides, he was gentleman; tired out of his mind or not.

His eyes drifted towards her slim neck and he noticed how creamy her skin tone really was, nearly like bone china. She wore a lovely teal dress will frills at the hem that wrapped around her slim waist and ample chest quite wonderfully. He couldn't see her feet except when the wind decided to snag the ends at random intervals and he caught brief glimpses of a matching set of wedged-heels that just managed to fit her sharp nails styled like dragon claws. Her arms and shoulders were bare, showcasing her creamy, slender arms and he noticed her fingernails were grown quite similarly to the claws on her feet. Not only that, but it seemed she also had small scales dotting the backs of her hands as well; pale, white scales. It was only after she had walked up to him, sat down on the soft grass and rested her hands on her lap that he realized the large, fluffy tail sticking out from her tailbone. Suddenly her mildly feral appearance was understandable to the undead. Was she some type of kraken-born he didn't know about, or something more… majestic? Argon raised an eyebrow in rapt interest and tilted his head to the side.

"What a lovely tail."

Priscilla's eyes widened, and she flushed red at the comment, "Do you… really think so?" Argon was broken from his train of thought and looked at woman as she shyly fidgeted with her hands.

"I'm sorry?"

"My tail… do you really think it's that nice?"

The heir froze. He hadn't realized he had openly said that. What's more, this tailed-hybrid of a woman was putting his heart over a pyromancy flame with how adorable she looked right now. It was affecting him so badly he had to mentally fight with his body to not reach forward and cup her chin.

"A-Ah, oh, well…" he stuttered out and saw her look at him through her white lashes. He suddenly noted how dry his throat was despite eating all that ice before gulping loudly. The fluffy appendage was obviously a sore spot he had unintentionally touched so there would be no going back now besides speaking his mind and his interpretation of logic would never let him down… right? Argon remembered the conundrum he had gotten himself into a while back with Morwena when he had said she was still quite beautiful for her age and paled. He was a goner.

"Well, if anything it makes you seem more…" he looked at her closely as he tried to find the proper words to describe what he saw. "mesmerising. I've honestly never seen anything like it before."

He mentally sighed as the woman seemed to brighten at his words. He was _so_ happy his mind hadn't let him down this time. One wrong word towards a girl's tender topic and he would have found himself underneath her pedicured foot in prostration. He of all people knew how delicate certain things were to talk about regarding the opposite sex, he had seen how Lithecore had got a beating by an adoring fangirl when he had just mentioned that the colour yellow wasn't good for her figure. Seriously, women were scary.

And yet, as he continued to stare at this breath-taking beauty before him, he couldn't feel any of that heart-thumping walk through landmines that he usually felt when speaking to any other woman he didn't particularly know. He blamed it on the fact that he was _actually_ speaking to a **_woman_ **in the first place; he was really nervous.

Priscilla was equally effected. She had released the breath she hadn't know she had been holding when he had paid her a compliment about her tail. Usually the people in Lordran saw it as something atrocious – which was odd when they adored the illusionary snakes Uncle Gwyndolin walked with – and showed her nothing but disgust when they saw her. She hated the fact that she was discriminated for something so annoyingly stupid but agreed that the main reason people disliked her was because she was a cross-breed; the taboo of all taboos before the law that unveiling a god was blasphemous had been rescinded. The fact that this man had pointed her and her tail out as _mesmerising_ of all things was almost like she was dreaming. The only two people to vocally refer any compliments to her tail was Aunt Velka and Sir Gough, not even her uncle had said anything about it.

"T-Thank you." she said as Argon looked up again to stare into her eyes. Oh, she was glad she was sitting down otherwise she was certain her knees would have buckled with how intense his gaze was. Argon, for his part, merely nodded in reply before the two of them lapsed into a shy, but comfortable silence. The bustle in the great hall next door was still echoing into the Timeless Garden, but with all the plant-life around them it felt more encapsulating, as if time itself had stopped for a few moments to allow them this simple, enjoyable silence.

The goddess looked at Argon from the corner of her eye and noticed him still breathing quite heavily. Whatever he had been doing before he had sought refuge here seemed to still carry a large hinderance on his movements. For one, he had yet to rise from his stretched-out position against the fountain. Wasn't he the least bit sore from reclining against stone?

"Tell me, why are you here instead of dancing. It _is_ a celebration your kingdom is hosting, is it not?"

Argon gave her a sheepish smile and tried to comb back a stubborn strand of hair. "Would you believe me if I said I'm here to _avoid_ another dance?"

At this, the cross-breed's eyebrow quirked. So he was popular with the ladies…

She couldn't blame him for it, even she agreed Argon was handsome, a seemingly perfect catch if anyone had come across him. It was just strange that a man like him that could easily play with her heart-strings – because she admitted that if he were a bad-boy she would be putty in his hands – would _choose_ to avoid the very gender that would fight tooth and nail just for a chance to _speak_ with him. Sure, there were people like King Ricard that had fairly good looks but didn't really seek companionship, but this was a completely different side of the titanite shard. Argon wasn't just some fairly cute man around her age, he was _hot_; not even she would lie to herself by saying he was anything less. She decided to try and push for a reason. If he became defensive then she would ease up, she didn't want to seem suspicious; he was just interesting to her. Interesting enough that she wanted to know more about him.

"Wouldn't you prefer to dance with as many women as you could? There are nearly too many princesses to count here tonight."

Argon chuckled. "Whilst that may sound entertaining, I'm afraid I don't socialize that much to be tempted. In fact, the reason I'm so worn out is _because_ of the very act of dancing."

"Oh? Please go on."

"I was forced to dance with seven women already. Five of which are complete nut-jobs, the sixth which can't hold her liquor but drinks like a fish and the seventh that was at least the saving grace to keeping my sanity."

Priscilla gave him an amused frown. He had just danced with seven women. That statement alone would have been enough to make any man foam at the mouth with rage for the simple fact that _nobody_ was that blessed with unnatural charm to woo not one but _seven_ maidens. His description of what it had been like with that number had been entertaining to listen to, but what was even more amusing was the fact that he seemed more disappointed than pleased.

She knew all roses bore thorns, she was a woman herself before being a goddess, so she knew what her gender was like. Still, for a person – no – for a _man_ to forget the experience of being that lucky and only focus on each woman's individual personality was quite a rarity.

"I see," she decided she would test the waters since he didn't seem to mind that she was invading on his personal life. Just a little poking or prodding wouldn't hurt. "And what would Sir Argon have to say about me?"

She wasn't trying to make his life miserable or be cheeky, her nature was anything but. She just honestly wanted to know where this bold move would take her.

"Just Argon is fine. And what do you mean 'what would I have to say about you'? You're already a pearl to behold but I'm guessing you already knew that much."

Priscilla blushed at another compliment simply given to her like a kiss on the cheek but remained determined. He knew how to flatter people – or perhaps that was just his sincerity – but it wouldn't stop her from riding this out until she received a satisfying answer.

With a small laugh that was more to calm her nerves than to seem amused, she tried again. "I mean would you allow me the last dance for tonight?"

Argon grinned and looked at her, his eye's glowing in the soft light. "Usually that would be my line. What are you trying to do here, be the main character in a male-protagonist's Romcom?"

The goddess smiled back, "Perhaps I am. Would that bother you?"

"Not at all." The undead said before finally pulling himself up from his position on the ground.

Priscilla watched as he rose, stretched his arms and sighed when he felt his tendons pop. She stood up from her place next to him and noted that he was quite tall for a human or undead, nearly as tall as Sir Ornstein – another feat other men would gnash their teeth at him for.

"Well, since you asked nicely, and you were actually great company compared to my terrible night, I might just take you up on your offer."

The cross breed opened her mouth to speak but stopped when she realized what he had said. She had been expecting him to refuse her – although about forty-five percent of her was actually glad he said yes – in favour of being too worn out. Now that he had not only agreed but had also called her 'great company' was beginning to turn her mind into cross-breed hyperventilation. What exactly was she supposed to do now that she had gotten herself into this mess? She didn't even know the first thing about _dancing_. Damn her forward mouth, cocky attitude that burst forth at the worst moments and her laziness to study formal dancing due to her introverted mannerisms!

"R-Right… well, w-we should just… g-g-go right in t-then." She stammered out, her tail on end as she turned and approached the brightly lit ball room again. There was no stopping her stupid actions now, best to embarrass herself and end the night with her pride only partially damaged. She was about to enter into the throng of bodies when a warm hand placed itself on her uncovered shoulder. Priscilla froze mid-step and turned to see Argon staring at her with a look of exasperation.

"Oh no, we're not going to venture into _that_ hell again. We just got _out_ of it."

"Then… how will we-" she was going to ask about how they were going to dance without the ballroom's orchestra when he placed a slim finger to her lips. It was warm like the rest of him as he turned her around and moved the hand on her shoulder to rest on her hip. She flushed like a burst tomato when he grinned mischievously, his good looks making her heart flutter.

"We just need an open space. You seem not to mind the cold since your arms are bare, so we'll just take this outside away from any pestering princesses and moronic men." He said and drew an ashen catalyst from somewhere behind his back. She stared at it as he waved it once around them, sparkling dust beginning to sprinkle their heads as a magic circle formed around them with blinding white sigils.

_'That catalyst looked like ones the Mirkwood Knight's of Oolacile used. How had he managed to acquire one? Where had he even hid it on his person in the first place, behind his back? On his belt maybe? That was impossible, he would have crushed it since he was sitting down. Why was he using a warping spell indoors? Where was he planning the take the two of us?'_

"You might want to hold on tight." He said, and Priscilla immediately latched onto him. There was no use exiting a magic circle once it was around you or you would risk losing more than just some vitality. Her arms went to secure themselves around Argon's neck as the heir replaced his catalyst somewhere on his body before pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her waist.

The cross breed squeaked at the unfamiliar contact and her tail began to writhe in uncertainty of whether she should be ecstatic or nervous that he was going to teleport them somewhere unknown to her. She knew he planned to take her to the snowy exterior of the castle, but she didn't know where. It could be on the top of the imposing cathedral for all she knew.

"Calm down," Argon said, and she looked up with mild worry in her uncertain gaze. "you're actually going to enjoy this, so relax." He smiled reassuringly, and her heartbeat immediately slowed its pace as she was lost in his amber pools. As he held her close, she felt an unusual trust in him as the magic circle grew brighter and began to warp them to a place of his choice.

Argon felt similar emotions as he gazed at those glittering emerald eyes of hers, pupils slitted and staring into his undead soul as he hugged her to him, her body warm against his own.

They unanimously felt a reassurance in each other's sincere look and she rested her head against his chest a moment before they warped, deeply inhaling his rich scent as she allowed a complete stranger to lead her by the hand. Hey eyes closed at the pleasing aroma he exuded, and she smiled wryly.

_'I suppose Aunt Velka's idea wasn't a lost cause after all.'_

Argon felt the cross breed press herself closer against him and he smirked when he saw her fluffy tail wag in what seemed like happiness.

_'Guess I should thank Lithecore for mentioning Plan B when this is all over.'_

* * *

**There we go! I promised you Argon x Priscilla in the previous chapter but didn't get to show it, so what did I do? Give you a loooonnng following chapter comprised of ONLY those two (with a side portion of Lithecore, Ciaran and Artorias to make things interesting). I hope you enjoyed.**

**To clarify, both princes of Ariamis used the Homeward Miracle to disappear from the ball room/great hall. Whilst the game makes it possible for you to warp to the last visited bonfire, this fic doesn't exactly use bonfires. Therefor, when people use the miracle here, they warp to the area _they_ consider as their personal 'home' or sanctuary. Since they're in the kingdom of Ariamis, that place could be anywhere; their room's, the kitchen, the town square, etc.**

**Oh yes, Argon uses Homeward as well but with his catalyst. I understand that he can't really do that due to not possessing a talisman, but this is fanfiction, I'm allowed to bend the lore/canon just a smidge, right?**

**Please do R and R, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this spin-off so far. I've really enjoyed writing it with all the comedy and different character's personalities I can conjure up. **

**I gave Gwyndolin vermillion irises. No, I do not know what his real eye colour is, if you do know, please tell me so that I can use it in Kingdom Come. I won't be focussing much on the other god's that much, just Havel, Gwyn, the Ariamis twins and their respective pairings. That reminds me, what did you think of the twist with Ciaran and Lithecore? I've got one like from a faithful follower, any others?**

**Poor Artorias, I didn't mean to put him down that much. Meh, I'll redeem him in a later chapter, he's still one of my fav's Character in DS 1**

**Ja ne.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 5 – ****It's The End of The World As They Know It**

* * *

**Do forgive the long time spent away from my beloved comedy and romance (roam… ants?), I've just been a tad busy taking ass and giving names.**

**-_you mean 'kicking ass and taking names.' Can you honestly not get a famous quote right when the underlined word here is quoted?_ **

**Of course, I can! Why here I go again…**

**_-cover your ears dear readers._ **

**What's a thousand minus seven?**

**_-…_ **

**What? That was a great quote.**

**_-one that doesn't suit the topic sentence in any way at all._ **

**Oh… my mistake then.**

**-_can you please just start the story. People are waiting to read more about the events that transpired in the previous chapter._ **

**Right you are! On with ze story!**

* * *

A lone maid of Ariamis castle stood alone in the chill, crisp morning air, as she busied herself with her daily cleaning routine. A small smile adorned her features as she merrily dusted the corridor of cobwebs and dust mites, all the while humming a tune that would have been familiar to just about anyone in the kingdom, especially after the previous night.

A tiny fleck of snow silently dropped itself onto the clean carpet through the open window, and the maid turned to look at it, her eyes sparkling as she remembered the shine the ballroom possessed but a few hours ago; awash with a multitude of different colours and races that gave the otherwise crispness of Ariamis a fresher dousing of creative flare.

As the drop of iced purity began to melt and soak the ground she walked on, a nearby door was opened and out came one of Imperious King Havel's sons. The maid straightened slightly and greeted the nobility standing three feet away, the warmth in her voice just as strong as the heat of the sun at its apex.

"Why, good morning to you, my prince. Isn't today just wonderful?"

Even though Ariamis and its people were a happy nation that knew not discrimination and the common issues of other larger populations, there was still an abundance of joy in the air as if Astora's ambassador himself were present. The reason was, yet again, last night's grand ceremony. The pride that the people of the North held for their clean streets, docile homesteads and prosperous land was a tall pillar that no strong man could pull down; the exuberance they carried with them now that their beautiful land could be shared with the entire _world_ was the massive castle that housed that tall pillar. How could they not find a cause for personal celebration when they were _finally_ able to explore a world that had previously been inaccessible to them?

With this in mind, basically everyone; from the garden boy to the local coroner in town square was ecstatic that very soon – perhaps mere minutes from the present – entire _nations_ would be walking through the snow-capped entrance of Ariamis to indulge in the fantasy land it's inhabitants called everyday life. Surely, the maid reasoned as she watched the prince rub his eyes, even Lord Havel's sons would find this news even more excitable.

At the thought of the King's first and second born, the young maid froze in her tracks. In her reveries of the previous evening that filled her with so much happiness, she had greeted the prince before her without a second thought of _which_ twin brother this really was. She cursed herself for not using her head first before speaking; and at the same time grumbled at her King for creating two near-identical sons that were so damn hard to identify at first glance. Granted, that wasn't really the problem here. How said prince would react and what he would do in reply to her gesture, was the problem.

If this were Prince Argon, it would be less of a trifle and more of a merry morning in his case. The younger of the two was always a morning person despite being so naturally friendly, and as such, would be more agreeable to her deed of reception – most likely stating that it was the perfect way to start the day. He was just as stunning inside as he was outside, that boy.

Prince Lithecore, on the other hand… was a door better left closed until the dark tendrils of the night came by to fearlessly pry the structure of wood from its hinges. There was nothing wrong with Lord Havel's firstborn per say; and at the same time, there was nothing exactly _right_ with him either…

Yet, after just over two decades of working in the castle and encountering the equally handsome half of the Ariamis brother's, she knew – as well as any other member of staff in the castle – that Lithecore was the polar opposite of his brother in factually _all_ ways possible. Everyone besides his personal handmaidens had even went as far as to place a 'flee on site' order on the pale prince's person so that no more new recruits entering the castle would die of a heart-attack when encountering the soft-spoken son of Ariamis, and she wasn't even exaggerating on the heart-attack thing; it had really happened to a poor soul!

No one really knew why Lithecore was as he was, or why he had to be so different from his younger brother of just three minutes. After all, wasn't it more commonplace for the firstborn to inherit all the good qualities of their parent's and leave scraps for the next one in line?

But now wasn't the time for such things. Right now, the young maid was deciding on whether to stay or flee whilst she had the chance. It would be rude of her to run, of course, but when considering the alternative – which was trauma she would never forget – the former seemed pretty damn good if it only meant to stain her unblemished name a smidge.

Nevertheless, she decided to wait it out and trust her luck.

The prince before her mumbled in reply to her earlier statement before he lowered his hands and looked at her.

He was dressed in a simple two-piece of pyjama's coloured cream, and his feet were bare. His long hair was ruffled from sleep and his eyes were a vibrant amber that seemed to glow in the presence of daylight.

_'Curses,' _thought the maid as she stood motionless, _'they look so similar that I can't tell whether he's Lord Argon or Lord Lithecore.'_

At that moment, the prince seemed to regain a sense of location and he offered her a gentle smile.

_'Praise the sun! With that ruffled appearance and that adorable smile that melts my heart, it must be Prince Argon,' _cheered the young maid. She returned the smile in full and giggled lightly when the prince's smile grew, growing so wide his teeth showed and he had to close his eyes.

_'That Argon. I swear one day those gorgeous looks will be the death of m-'_

"Good _morning_ to you as well, _Ophelia_."

At those words, the young maid's face froze as if someone had struck her with a paralysis spell.

_'Good Gwyn, he wasn't Argon!'_

And she had good reason to be stunned to silence. For one, Lithecore _never_ woke up early unless there was a matter he needed to attend to personally – besides that, he nearly always slept in the Annex close to his tomes, which was another shock that he was even in his room to begin with.

Secondly, he wasn't with his personal maid's, Sylvain and Alice. It was mandatory that any personal staff of the heirs' be the first to wake their respected charges, be the first faces seen in the morning – or evening – light, and ensure the prince they were assigned to was properly dressed, cleaned and escorted to the dining hall for breakfast. Why the prince's help was spontaneously absent this morning was like a critical hit to her health points.

Thirdly, she had been misled. Lithecore was known to be more morose than a man found hoodwinked by his betrothed. He was a pleasure to look at but one hell of an experience to encounter, considering he acted like everyone around him was nothing more than fodder to some imaginary beast of his own superiority. The prince was like a damned caterpillar with hair, one touch and you were to experience unfathomable agony. Usually when greeted in the mornings he was more likely to send a seething glare someone's way before muttering something that sounded very much like the incantation for a curse. With this in mind, why on Ariamis was he smiling?! Wasn't that the duty of the more approachable of the two?

And lastly, the prince had called her by her name. Now, that wasn't very uncommon since Imperious King Havel's firstborn was a man of much wisdom, and it was expected that he would memorize the names of those that served him and the kingdom in general. And yet… that part of Ophelia's mind that was still freaked out by this whole encounter was ablaze with the question of HOW THE HELL DID HE KNOW HER NAME?!?!?!?!

Honestly, she didn't know whether to just smile and be her usually chipper self or hyperventilate at the sudden out of character personality Lithecore was displaying.

"Ah, you are _right_," the prince mused whilst he stretched and stared out from the window, "the day is _indeed_ most agreeable. Perhaps I'll dine with _father _and Argon today."

He grinned at the thought. The grin was innocent, and Ophelia looked upon it with awe, alongside terror. She had never known Prince Lithecore _could_ smile normally. She had seen those impish smirks of his and they chilled her to the bone every time she thought about them. This was vastly different; she wasn't sure if she should be happy that he actually possessed regular expressions or worried that he had the potential to use them as trump cards when he was going about his dastardly machinations around the castle again. She hoped she wouldn't be on the receiving end of one of those ploys in the future.

And as if luck wanted to let her suffer, Lithecore chose that exact moment to look at her. It wasn't really a bad thing that he noticed her presence – he had been known to do worse when in the company of people – but that gaze that seemed, dare she say it, _curious,_ felt like a beam of flame through her being. The man was just looking at her for Lloyd's sake and she already felt like it was a second too long spent on her smaller form.

"_Anyways_," Lithecore yawned, and combed a hand through his ruffled locks, "please tell Alice and Sylvain they aren't _needed_. They may have the day _off_… if they wish."

"O-O-Of course, my prince… I shall a-alert them right away." Ophelia stuttered out, before shrinking back as the prince moved to pass by her. It wasn't that she was appalled by the sight of him, it was just that he was Prince Lithecore. And everybody knew Prince Lithecore didn't touch _anyone_. Furthermore, Prince Lithecore was acting rather _strange._ If that wasn't a red flag, then she didn't know what _was-_ oh, by the Gods! Now she was beginning to think according to his strange way of speaking.

Lithecore placed his hands in his pockets as his feet took him to the bath's but stopped suddenly, before turning to Ophelia. His uncharacteristic smile turned into a frown for a moment as he regarded the young maid's terrified disposition.

"Are you _alright_?" he asked and cupped Ophelia's chin with gentle fingers. The action made her flush crimson for more than one reason. "Did you have too much to drink last night? Or perhaps you did not drink _enough_? Either way, if something is _wrong_ please advise me so that I may made it _right_. Agreed?"

Ophelia could only nod mutely, too petrified to even breathe. Lithecore smiled comfortingly at her. As terrifying as he may have been, she couldn't help but feel weak in the knees.

"Wonderful." He said and released her chin. Ophelia went to breathe in a sigh of relief when she felt the prince tug her arm. So unexpected was the act that she found herself stumbling toward him, before the pleasantness of his scent invaded her senses and the warmth of his mouth was placed on the centre of her cheek.

He backed away before she could even register what was going on, and he had already passed her when the sensation on her cheek became a burning inferno.

"As you were." She heard her prince say and looked at his retreating form as it rounded the next corner.

Ophelia placed a hand to her face, shock filtering through her body and unbelief blistering in her mind as her eyes widened like a drake's maw. She didn't know what would be the correct response to all she had just endured not even a minute ago.

Hyperventilating at the fact that the prince had just kissed her might have been a good start, or screaming in elation that that experience – as scary as it may have been – had made her heart beat in her irises with joy. Perhaps she should have gone with stuttering incoherently to herself as she tried to process what the Izalith had just happened.

In any case, Ophelia had decided to go with the fourth option, which meant fainting on the spot after the prince had left her sight. That had just been too many emotions for her to deal with, and if anyone had the gall to ask, she would have bet her soul that no one other than maybe that strange tomboy visitor, Beatrice, would have had better luck in that situation.

As the young maid's mind quickly approached unconsciousness, the only thing on her mind besides how soft Lithecore's lips felt on her skin, was that the prince was behaving very strange this morning. She briefly wondered if it was because of the previous night's events. Surely, it couldn't be that, her mind assured her as she passed out. Prince Lithecore just isn't the partying type… right?

* * *

"What was I thinking when I let myself indulge in that fiend's excuse of for ale!?"

"Father…"

"It was my plan to just arrive, make a lasting impression – for publicity of course – and then leave dramatically. Why in the name of Lloyd did I have to allow my emotions to run rampant with the very man I despise?"

"Father."

"Perhaps it was all his plan! No… Havel isn't the scheming type. Although, he _did_ manage to acquire a treaty with me. That means him, and that odd firstborn of his can come and go freely into Lordran – not that I ever had control over the other regions of the land. But even so! I shouldn't underestimate him; he may be planning something devious as we speak. Perhaps to seek revenge after Seath's second betrayal? Or does he mean to shame me after that drunken spiel Gwynevere performed last night? I need to rally Ornstein, prepare the knights, garrison the walls! There may be a war coming our way, and not necessarily one with swords and bows… what if I'm wrong, though? Perhaps I'm overthinking thing-"

"**Father!**"

"GAH!" Gwyn yelled, jumping from the booming voice of his youngest son. "Gwyndolin! What have I told you about using your mortal voice when in the castle? I nearly impaled you with my lightning out of shock." He swore, sometimes the boy – or was he a girl… he couldn't remember – was more masculine than his elder brother.

Said last born merely stared back at his panting father with a blank expression, or what seemed like it… that large crown of his blocked the majority of his face. Barely anyone in the kingdom knew the colour of his eyes, let alone what expression he possessed when he spoke.

"What is it? Can you not see that our kingdom faces an invasion from those mountain-dwellers?" the Lord of Sunlight asked as he peered up at his son… daughter… whatever he was.

Gwyndolin may have been born under the cover of the dark moon but he had inherited quite a significant amount of his genes. Where Gwynevere was the same height of a human woman – courtesy of her mother – and his wayward firstborn, who's name nobody shall speak, was gifted with his strength; Gwyndolin was born with a taller stature.

Not only that but the King of Anor Londo had felt the surge of power running through his veins the first time he had held the child. It had been magnificent, something unfathomable but it had happened. If he were to remember correctly, even Seath had seemed to respect him after their first encounter – which was a tall order when Seath hated everyone.

That being said, it was infuriating that Gwyn had to look _up _at his son when he was trying to put the child _down_. This was perhaps the first and only time he had ever been angry that his seed had had such a lasting effect at birthing something that literally overwhelmed him in every way. Well… Gwyndolin didn't have any hair on his smooth cheeks, and he was over a few centuries old by now… that was an upside for the god of Lightning, right?

Gwyn shook his head. it was pointless thinking about something so petty. He should devote that energy to being petty about something else, like how Havel was now his ally. Damn Frostbite wine. How did they make it so potent that even a god couldn't manage more than a few sips?

"Ahem."

Gwyn turned his gaze back to his son who merely raised a pale, slender finger to the side of them. The Lord of Sunlight followed the direction the finger was pointed towards only to come across a daydreaming cross breed sitting by one of the glass windows.

"So Priscilla is here as well. Your point?"

"Look closer."

Gwyn grumbled but obliged, nonetheless. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at his granddaughter and noticed that she was playing with a small cotton doll that looked exactly like her. However, that wasn't what was peculiar about the sight he saw. She was singing. While that wasn't an odd thing to note either, it was the _song_ she was singling that made him place a hand on his chin on confusion.

"Unicorns, unicorns. Unicorns, I love them…" she was chanting over and over as she fiddled about with that doll of hers, a smile on her face.

Gwyn turned back to Gwyndolin. He received the same blank look in return. He couldn't tell whether it was because the boy was trying to prove a point or if he just looked like that normally. He spent too much time in his chambers that he hardly knew his last born well. Although… perhaps that was because he barely paid attention to the boy at all. He was just too busy doing damage control when Gwynevere went on her drunken rampages.

"She's singing about unicorns, what's odd about that?"

"Other than the fact that they don't exist?"

"Neither does that legend about that undead invader, what was his name? The 'Dad of Giants'?"

"The Giantdad."

"There we go."

"Someone needs to tell her about the unicorns, Father."

"Don't you dare!"

"And why not?"

"We all have fantasies, Gwyndolin. Do you not remember the time you fell in love with that book about a talking biscuit?"

"The Gingerbread man."

"Exactly! I was the one to tell you that he wasn't real. It was a crass mistake."

"No, you walked into the kitchen where I was casting a spell on the freshly baked edible to make it come alive and cleaved the table in two with your sword."

"That was just to toughen you up a bit-"

"Thereafter, you created a bolt of lightning and turned the cookies I had baked to dust." The Darkmoon Lord set his mouth in a thin line as Gwyn sweat dropped.

"Okay, what's your point?"

"How can she love unicorns if she was afraid of them since the age of ten?"

Silence reigned over the father and son for a moment.

"Good point."

The father and son sighed out and turned back to their relative. She had been acting strangely ever since the night of Ariamis' grand inauguration into the world. Gwyn admitted that he hadn't managed to catch sight of her after they had all arrived, but now he imagined that that was a mistake on his part since she seemed so out of it.

Come to think of it, they had come to Ariamis with the secondary agenda to speak to King Ricard. The boy _had_ sent her a request of marriage after all – albeit a reluctant one. Had had asked Artorias and Gough to be the advisors to his granddaughter during negotiations but they had both shirked their duty that night; claiming that some slender prince in a blue suit had divided their attention. However, from what Ornstein had reported, it seemed that some unlucky fool had just ticked off the Wolf Knight. Whilst it was amusing to imagine some shmuck pushing Artorias' buttons in all the right places, it was not all that funny to think about how they had left Priscilla, a damned _princess_ of _Anor Londo_ unattended. And they called themselves his Elite Four.

Gwyn scoffed into his hand. He would find a suitable punishment for those two soon.

"That reminds me, what of the marriage treaty between Baldor?" Gwyndolin asked casually as one of the snakes that served as his feet rose to eye-level to be petted.

"Oh, it failed like I knew it would."

"Hmm, I see- wait, WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

Gwyn cringed as he stuck his little finger into his ear. This boy/girl had a strong set of lungs.

"Come now, Gwyndolin. Don't tell me you and Velka were actually expecting that sham of an arrangement to proceed." He scoffed again and grinned at his last born. "Even a fool on the street could see disaster coming from a mile away."

Gwyndolin's mouth twitched but he said nothing. It was at times like this that his father actually displayed the reason he was fit to rule the kingdom.

"Ricard is a runt that seeks wanderlust. Why _you_ of all people failed to notice this grand flaw in your plan us beyond even Nito's foresight." The god turned his head forward to gaze at his grandchild. "And even with that Witch's wisdom coupled with your own, there was another drastic piece of information you were blind to."

"Which was?" Gwyndolin asked, his attention solely focussed on his father.

"A man's heart."

The Lord of the Darkmoon blinked. "I don't understand."

His father grinned again and stroked his beard. "I don't expect you to. Understanding humanity has never been easy for us. Yet, even so, it is important you grasp the concepts behind how a man thinks."

Gwyndolin nodded.

"Once a man's sinews are caught on the vines that surround him, he faces ensnarement for eternity. As such, thinking that a simple marriage proposal would douse his smouldering intensity for the world is like convincing a stubborn fish that life is more plentiful on land."

The Darkmoon Lord hummed in response, placing a hand to his temple. What his father spoke was true, humans were never really an easy race to understand. Their thinking was so perplexing, not even the greatest scholars of the kingdom were able to study general thought processing precisely.

Yet, they somehow resonated directly with the gods themselves, the current undead were the perfect example.

He understood it now. It was pointless dangling a carrot before a hare's face when it was already stuffed from its own gluttony. Ricard was not naïve, yet he was not mature enough to grasp the concept of courtship and marriage due to his adolescence as an undead in his prime years. Whilst his advisors, Velka and he himself had attempted to force this treaty down his throat via engagement; his mind and longing had occupied his need for adventure and discovery, not wedding processions and children. He had been a fool for assuming it was the best move in the first place.

"I… understand, somewhat." Gwyndolin sighed out and his father placed a large hand on his slender shoulders. It was an odd feeling for Gwyndolin to receive physical contact with anyone, but this new sense of affection and attention he was receiving from his father was even more peculiar. He had never known the God of Light to possess a caring side, and yet this simple gesture of conversation and debate was comforting to his mind… as if he were being flooded with the sun's rays just from this small point of contact between the two of them.

"However, that still leaves us at where we began."

Gwyn raised an eyebrow at his last born before glancing back at Priscilla. "Oh, I wouldn't throw in the towel just yet." His son turned his crowned face his way. "From what Ornstein tells me, we might not need to cancel the preparations for a wedding at all."

"Who is the suitor?"

"No one knows, but according to one of the knight's, he whisked her away in the Ariamis Garden."

"So the Timeless Garden was no mere myth?!" Gwyn's last born asked in excitement, his face nearly pressed against his father's.

"Besides all that however," the god changed the subject, pushing Gwyndolin away, "It seems hope is not lost for our princess after all."

For once, Gwyndolin allowed a brief smile to lift his mouth. His father was right.

"But not until I find out who the bastard is that serenaded my grandchild into this unicorn-loving husk!"

And for the umpteenth time, Gwyndolin allowed a loud sigh to leave his lips. His father was a piece of work alright. If only he had possessed this devotion to his _own_ children.

* * *

"Like I was sayin- ah – ha…"

"Argon? What is the matter?" Imperious King Havel asked, frowning at his son as he witnessed the boy scrunch his face up.

"It- It's noth… nothin- Uhh, HACHOO!"

Havel raised his napkin before his face as a thousand beads of saliva peppered it with wetness. That was close. If he had been but a second too late he would have ended up like his second-in-command next to him.

He turned his head to see a very shocked Richter blinking dumbly as he wiped off Argon's spit from his face.

"Oh man, I'm really sorry about that Richter." Argon said sheepishly as he walked to the advisor's side. "I don't know how that happened. Here, let me help, you've got snot on your eyebrow."

"Do not fret, my prince. Accidents do happen." The older man said as he calmly waved the heir off, dabbing his eyebrow with his own napkin with a minor cringe.

Havel supressed a smile. He always envied the manner in which his advisor and best friend was always so passive, even during the occasions that required one to blow their top. Damn fellow's poker face was better than his own.

"Right, you were about to _say _something Argon?" all three men in the room turned their heads towards the firstborn sitting across the table from his bother. It was a pure shock to see him with other people entirely, including his own family. It was more shocking that he had even bothered to wake up early for a change considering all the hours he devoted to the unfinished tomes in the Annex. However, the greatest shock of all, was the fact that Lithecore, the twin _everyone_ in the castle chose to avoid when possible, was actually having breakfast like a normal person AND he was **smiling**.

It must have been some type of illusion, some trick of the light or a simple mistake, but the truth was that Argon's grouchy elder brother of three minutes was smiling so wide a Cheshire cat would get jealous. Perhaps he was possessed by a mimic – if that was even possible – in which case the only known method to rid one of a ghost or spectres would be physical exorcism.

Argon decided to take that theory to heart. Which was why everyone save for Richter was nonplussed when the heir reached over the table and slapped Lithecore across the face with enough force to make the man's head snap sideways.

**_SLAP!_ **

It was so spontaneous that even the assaulted prince merely stared at the carpeted floor with wide amber eyes. That is… before those eyes were filled to the brim with unadulterated rage.

"_What_ was that _for_?" he hissed, a bone-chilling fire scorching the room with his rising agitation.

"Uh… gist exorcism?" Argon mumbled out carefully before he sat back down in his seat and took a gulp from his glass. "Sorry for that. Hehe…"

Lithecore narrowed his eyes at his identical twin whilst Havel wracked his brain for a way to change the subject.

_'Crap! Now I've done it. Where did I get the stupid idea that he was possessed when he was born **demonic**?!'_

He watched his furious brother tighten his grip on his knife. For a moment Argon wondered if Lithecore would spare his eye's when he killed him. He knew he would revive but the thought of experiencing your eyes stabbed out was worse than being sodomized by a silver piece of cutlery – he wouldn't put it passed the sadistic twin.

As Argon was figuring out what body part he should brace, Havel was busy hyperventilating as he imagined the pandemonium that was soon to be unleashed.

_'For Lloyd's sake, I thought this stupid in-fighting of theirs had phased out years ago! The last thing I need is for two grown undead with powerful souls to duke it out in my goddamn castle.'_

"Anyway…" both Havel and Argon were broken out of their inner turmoil by a stoic Richter wiping the corner of his mouth. "I take it both princes' enjoyed themselves last night?"

At the mention of Ariamis' inauguration into modern society, Lithecore's ears perked up and he ignored his idiot of a brother to answer the King's right-hand man.

"Oh? _How_ did you know?"

The King's advisor merely placed a chopped pepper in his mouth before speaking. "You aren't the only one involved in espionage, my prince."

Lithecore offered him a smirk and slurped a spoonful from his bowl. One of the reason's he respected the King's advisor, who was also the commander of the Ariamian army, was due to his silent disposition. He was a mask of true secrecy which no entity could uncover. It was this trait, along with his battle prowess, that saw him right next to the King he served, the flawless advocate, as he was known by.

"Indeed, I am not. How _foolish_ of me to forget."

"Well, if a man finds himself lucky enough to hoodwink the Lords Blade of Lord Gwyn himself, such forgetfulness is justified. In my opinion, at least." He finished with a sly grin.

Havel leaned forward in his seat. "Gwyn's Lords Blade, you say? Wait, do you mean Ciaran?"

"The one and only."

The Imperious King gawked as his eyes shifted from Richter to Lithecore continuously for the next one minute in complete shock. It was only after a winter bug had flown through the window and into his open mouth that he decided to clamp his jaws together and compose himself.

"Well, you _are_ my son," Havel said after spitting out the bug and gulping down the wine from his glass. "If that minx had possessed the strength to turn you down then I would have disowned you immediately."

"Thanks for the vote of _confidence_, Father."

"You're welcome!" Havel cheered before devouring a large slice of the meat on his plate. The chef had really outdone himself today… was he using Blood Drop to make the cut this tender?

"But all joking aside, I am glad to see you hold _some_ attraction to any gender at all, even if you did pick a woman known to skewer men before they can even speak."

Lithecore simply shrugged and continued eating.

"Even so, I hope you approached her in a way that was, well… less uh-"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Of course _not._ I behaved typically."

"And she humoured you?" Havel gasped in surprise.

"Better. She allowed me to _take_ _her_."

"WHAT?! You deflowered a woman not betrothed to you? If your mother were here, she would-"

"To the _Annex._" Lithecore cut in as he dabbed his mouth.

Imperious King Havel furrowed his brows as he regarded his son. "What?"

"She allowed me to _take _her to the _Annex_."

Havel sighed in gladness and exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He heard Richter snort in amusement at the exchange as he closed his eyes to calm himself. If he had spared a final glance at his firstborn, he would have seen him bump fists with his advisor before the two of them shared a mischievous grin.

_'I swear this boy will be the death of me one day.'_

For a change of scenery, the King of Ariamis turned to the lesser of two evils and shook him from his silent persona.

"What of you Argon?"

"Huh?" the prince replied, properly shaken from his thoughts of death and despair.

"From what the castle maids witnessed, he was worn out quite vigorously by the Daughters of Chaos _and_ their tipsy mother. Not only that, but he was also seen crawling towards the Timeless Garden when it was all over." Cut in Richter, making Argon frown at the man. Nobody had seen him reach the Garden because he had used his invisibility spell. How closely did he keep watch over him and Lithecore when they thought no one was looking?

"That's good to hear." Havel replied. He was glad the boy was at least giving this arranged marriage thing a try, even if he despised the idea. In reality, he hated the idea as well, but what other choice would he have the establish a treaty that would never strain itself? Besides, it wasn't like Argon was repulsed by Morwena's children. He was always going on about how that quiet one with the white hair was the ideal woman. Surely after dancing with her would cause _some_ impulse of his to make him want this marriage… right? "So, have you made a decision yet?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Splendid, which one of the sister's will be your bride?"

"None of them really." Argon cut into the meat resting on his plate as he spoke.

"Ah, come now son. Don't be bashful. I'm your father, you can tell me." Havel laughed as he took a long sip from his glass. This year's harvest of Frostbite seemed sweeter than the last.

"I didn't make a choice, though. I called the wedding off."

The sound of the Imperious King violently coughing after spraying his advisor in a cloud of red mist was all that could be heard as Argon cut up his steak, popped it into his mouth; and hummed in appreciation at the flavour. The head chef was definitely using Frostbite to make the meat this tender.

"Ah, Lloyd! Apologies Richter."

Richter dabbed his face with his napkin, shock slowly disappearing from his face. That was twice in the space of an hour. Was he cursed or was it just not his day today? "Pay it no heed, my Lord."

Havel nodded at his friend before turning back to his son. "YOU DID WHAT?!"

"I don't why you're so shocked. I told you I wouldn't be ready to marry, especially not into Izalith."

"That marriage would was supposed to be the glue that joined Izalith and Ariamis at the hip, you dolt! Without it, we lose our ability to co-exist in the case of the uprising currently growing within the underground nation-"

"We still have a treaty."

"Whaaat?" Havel asked, bewildered. "HOW?!"

"I spoke with Morwena whilst she groped me into oblivion. We agreed that since a marriage couldn't be the counterweight to create a treaty, a compromise would have to be made."

"But what else could you have to bargain with when the she finds almost everything nonsensical?"

"She likes wine, doesn't she?"

Havel froze in his seat. He felt a cold, freezing chill creep up his spine as he looked at his second born. "What did you do?"

"I agreed that she would own forty percent of our vineyards' bounty if she would be willing to make Ariamis her ally."

Havel blinked. His son, Argon, the funny and approachable one had just circumvented his own arranged marriage by selling the Witch of Izalith a resource she was insatiable for; effectively preventing any unhappy changes in both kingdoms while still achieving the original objective.

The Imperious King cut another piece of his meal before eating it.

_'Why didn't I think of that?'_

The answer had been staring both him and Morwena in the face. Count on Argon to point out the obvious with his unpredictability.

"That's brilliant of you son, but I still don't understand… I thought a marriage with one of the Daughters of Chaos wouldn't be something you would object to so vehemently."

"I didn't despise the idea." Argon replied.

"So why didn't you agree to the arranged marriage? I know it's wrong to force it on you but you spoke of that lastborn so much I thought you would have settled down with her if that was what it came to?"

"I agree that Queelan – and I can't believe I'm about to say this – _Quelaag_ might have been the best of the sestet…"

"Then _why_ did you re-negotiate?" Argon looked at his bother in surprise. He had forgotten he was there.

"What, you want me to marry Quelaan and die in my sleep by a jealous arachnid-loving twin with talons for hands? That would just spark a war between the two nations and contradict the point of that damned wedding."

Lithecore, Richter and Havel thought about that for a moment before turning back to the heir of Ariamis.

"I _see_ your point."

"What about marrying Quelaag instead then?" Richter asked, "You seem to hold her in the same light as her sister?"

"Quelaag isn't bad, and she would definitely consider it if I asked for her hand…"

"… _However_, she's sadistic and _possessive._ In the _end_ all of her good points fall to the wayside when factoring in her… _fetish_."

"What fetish?" Richter and Havel asked in unison.

Lithecore and Argon turned to the two men with grave looks on their faces. "_Bondage._"

Silence reigned yet again around the four men as they ate their respective meals.

"Well, at least everything worked out in the end." Havel stated with a grin. "At last, Ariamis will _finally_ be at peace with the rest of the world."

Richter and the princes smiled at that. It was always a joyous thing to note that even after the emotional rollercoaster everyone had been through, there was still light at the end of the tunnel.

"But you know, I don't think we'll have to cancel the wedding preparations just yet Father." Argon mused as he tapped his chin in thought.

"Oh? Why is that?" Imperious King Havel asked as he took another sip from his glass.

"Because… I think I'm in love."

For the third time that day, Richter blinked blankly as another man's saliva – along with more Frostbite wine – plastered his face like a cast.

"Y-You _WHAT_?!" Havel sputtered out.

Argon simply smiled at his plate softly. "I think I've found her, the one I'm meant to be with."

"My _my_, brother…" Lithecore muttered, shock apparent on his face. That was the _last_ thing he expected to come from his brother's mouth.

"Indeed Lithecore, and its all thanks to you."

Lithecore paled – something he himself thought was physically impossible.

"Oh _dear…_"

As Havel and Lithecore began assaulting the youngest heir of Ariamis with questions upon questions, a drenched Richter raised his wine-stained napkin over his empty plate and wrung out the excess liquid before sighing.

"I should have chosen a better place to sit this morning."

* * *

**This should have been posted a week ago, but I had been ill for a while and therefore was not able to post anything, let alone do anything whilst my limbs were weaker than a twig. I am truly sorry about that.**

**I wasn't too happy about this chapter. I didn't feel the vibe I was attempting to impart. However, hopefully all of you do in my stead. I've got a good idea about how the next chapter will go so hopefully I can post this one sooner than I usually do.**

**If there are any errors, please forgive me, I will edit them as soon as I am able.**

**In the meantime, have a splendid day/evening, keep you eyes peeled for the release of NieR Re:Incarnation and keep safe!**

**Love you guys! Adieu!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 6 – Wrong Place At A Questionable Time **

* * *

**Ahh, it feels good to get back into the comedy that is this fic. As I've said before, I will not be posting chapters for this spin-off as frequently as my other updates for various stories. That being said, I do apologise if you've been waiting eagerly for this current addition to the Cinderella adaptation.**

**Also, please remember that if you want message me personally to ask me questions, pick my brain or request other stories regarding the Dark Souls Universe, you can either contact me via Reddit as KitsuneKimchi; or via my external e-mail address: **Kitsummer19 at gmail-dot-com

**Personally, I'd much prefer you e-mail me. Makes life easier when I'm on the move.**

* * *

If the Kingdom of Ariamis was the personification of the moon, then Lordran and its Shining City would be the perfect embodiment of the very sun currently suspended in the sky. Imperious King Havel stared at it all with nostalgia in his heart and annoyance on his face. Out of all women in the North, South, East and West; his second born, the charming and competent heir to his throne just _had_ to pick Gwyn's granddaughter as the woman he would marry. Sometimes he swore his luck just became worse as the wrinkles on his face grew with every new decade.

Oddly enough, though the sky was cloudless and the inhabitants here exposed to the powerful rays of light from above, the humidity and heat was actually quite regulated. As if the sun itself wasn't even that hot – which he highly doubted. Then again, it had been eons since the Imperious King of Ariamis had stepped foot inside Lordran. Perhaps he had just forgotten what it was like to feel the sun's warmth on his face when he had lived in the mountains for so long?

"If you will please follow me, Imperious Lord."

Havel turned his head back toward the squire in front on him and immediately his face soured. That was right, because his idiot son had chosen to opt for the figurative forbidden fruit, he and his Right-hand, Richter, were forced to commune with Gwyn himself to negotiate the procession of this wedding. And that was if there was even going to _be_ a wedding.

He would be the first to admit that he did not hold anymore reservations toward his compatriot after their quality time together in his study. However, they were still both stubborn at heart when it came to many, _many_ things, including the topic of becoming **_family_ **.

But even so, the Imperious King could not back down from this sudden occurrence, and neither could the Sun God. After all, both Argon and Gwyn's granddaughter had fulfilled their promises – even if they _had_ been forced into it – to agree to an arranged marriage with another kingdom. Both rulers would be seen as hypocritical by their subordinates and citizens if they decided to back out of this arrangement now. Honestly, it was just a shame neither King's had made a rule banning any marriage relation with Ariamis and Anor Londo.

Nevertheless, Havel was not completely dissatisfied. From the brief amount of time he had spent arriving at Lordran's lower levels before ascending upward to Anor Londo – because that bearded fool was too much of a procrastinator to allow visiting nobility to traverse via his _direct_ passageway – he had seen more smiling faces than he had thought possible, and even the poorest of families had joy written upon their faces. He would be lying if he said that his ulterior motive wasn't to ask the Lord of Sunlight how he had managed to banish the cold reveries from those darker days so effectively.

"Thank you for your patience, my Lord." spoke the squire after much time navigating around Silver Knights, the occasional giant, and were those bat-wing demons he glimpsed standing on the spires and rooftops? The squire turned toward the pair of Royal Sentinels guarding the way to the Throne Room.

The Imperious King looked up at them with an intrigued glint in his eye. The last time he had seen these elite soldiers was when he was still Archbishop to Anor Londo. Back then, there had been as many as the eye could see training in the ways of Gwynevere's miracles. Now, it seemed only these two lucky chaps remained. It was truly a shame, but even so, they were more than enough force to defend and attack any intruders or enemies of the Kingdom. And even if some jittery assailant with dumb luck _did_ manage to get passed them, Gwyn's seemingly endless army of Silver Knights that patrolled the halls would make quick work of them before their blood even touched those massive double-doors.

As Havel and Richter waited for said doors to swing open completely, the squire before him bowed deeply before speaking.

"Please continue forward. Lord Gwyn is ready for you now."

Havel scoffed at the kind and curt statement. Gwyn was ready for him? He was barely prepared for a good bath to wash off all that muck his ugly face created when he walked around like a living broom. In retrospect, it was actually _he_ that was ready for _Gwyn_. He would see how prepared his comrade was after they spoke about just how this arrangement was going to throw down.

"Lord Havel," Richter spoke up just before he took a step forward. "Should we not rather allow our trio of elite guards to remain outside? After all, we _are_ within the safest place in Lordran."

"Safe for who exactly?" Imperious King Havel snorted in amusement as he turned to his Right-hand man. "We are in the domain of Gwyn, now. Remember that."

"I have not forgotten; it is just that I advise we calm ourselves a little."

"I am calm, Richter." Havel replied with a laugh and turned to the squire still standing near them. "Don't I look calm to you?"

The squire's eyes widened as he sputtered out a reply, not used to being spoken to so casually by a King. "A-Ah-Af course you do, your eminence!"

Havel nodded in satisfaction before turning back to a sighing Richter. "See? No issues here. Now let's head on in."

"You're not going to ask the Painting Guardians to wait here, are you?"

"And allow a sneaky Silver Knight to shiv me in the spine? The hell, I won't! I'm too bloody panicky to let them leave my side!"

Richter sighed again before palming his face. "But Lordran are our allies now, Lord Havel."

"Even more reason not to relax! Have your never read Macbeth, or even Hamlet for that matter? Now come along!"

The Commander of the Painting Guardians and Right-hand man of the Imperious King shook his head in defeat. He wondered how his King had made it so far in life being this contradictory about everything he did. That being said, he was glad that he was handling everything better than he had prior when that envoy from Lordran had arrived in Ariamis…

* * *

_"OW! WHAT THE HELL, OLD MAN?!"_

_"YOU SPEAK TO ME WITH RESPECT BOY! ESPECIALY AFTER THE STUNT YOU PULLED A FEW HOURS AGO!"_

_"How was I supposed to know she from Lordran?!"_

_"What, you mean your eyes, ears and brain are useless at analysis? All this time spent tutoring you about the different nationalities and you can't even tell a shrub from a bush, let alone a merchant from a swindler or a commoner from a noble!"_

_"Those comparisons aren't even comparable in the first place! Besides, she had a tail and makeshift mini horns on her brow, almost like a dragon."_

_"AND WHAT COUNTRY OTHER THAN LORDRAN WOULD POSSESS A DRAGON TO CREATE SOMEONE LIKE HER, EH?!"_

_"Um… Lothric?" Lithecore interjected with a raised finger._

_"You stay out of this," Havel pointed his Dragontooth at his firstborn in warning._

_"Okay, backing **away**." The heir said before exiting the breakfast table silently. He knew he shouldn't have dined with family today. Bad things always happen when he decides to be normal for a change. _

_"Traitor." Argon spat at his brother before he received a fist to the face that sent him flying into a nearby wall._

_"Boy, you better keep your mouth shut before I break it."_

_The twin of Lithecore shakily pulled himself out of the crater his body made into the wall before pointing to his dislocated jaw._

_"Alrhedthy brothe ith."_

_The Imperious King sniffed and dusted off his clothing. He hadn't meant to hit **that** hard. _

_"Uhm… can I… leave now?" Havel spun around to see the very same scrawny envoy standing near the doorway with an unrolled scroll of parchment in his hand possessing the crest of Anor Londo. As soon as Havel's eyes met him, his rage burst forth again._

_"WHAT THE IZALITH ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE?!" the envoy shrieked in fear as he was punted out into the hallway by Havel's boot._

_"YOU GO BACK TO THAT BRUTISH FOOL AND TELL HIM TO EXPECT MY ARRIVAL IN THE NEXT MORNING! AND DON'T YOU DARE FORGET TO TELL HIM THAT HE'S A SCHEMING GOAT WITH MORE HAIR IN HIS HEAD THAN ACTUAL BRAINS!"_

_The envoy yelped as he dodged an incoming plate that shattered next to his head before taking off at full speed._

_"RICHTER!" the Imperious King roared_

_"Yes, Lord Havel?"_

_"PREPARE MY FINEST ATTIRE, TOMORROW WE ARRIVE IN LORDRAN TO DISCUSS A GODDAMN WEDDING!"_

_"As you wish, my Lord." Richter replied calmly as he relocated Argon's jaw into place with a loud snap._

_"ARGH! Son of a bitch, that hurt!"_

_"Language, my young prince. Language."_

_"Right, sorry Richter."_

* * *

Thinking back on that moment, Havel's Right-hand doubted things would actually go well for them, considering just who his Lord was about to converse with. Whilst he admitted that relations _had_ been signed and ties had _certainly_ grown stronger, that didn't necessarily mean that this convergence _would_ go off without a hitc- oh, by Lloyd, now he was beginning to do that thing Prince Lithecore did when he spoke. Although it was mildly annoying, he honestly did think it was quite catchy. Perhaps if the first heir of Ariamis were more approachable he could start a trend with the children?

Richter held back a chuckle. There was no way that was possible, even if it was in his wildest dreams. It was just unimaginable to see Lithecore interact kindly with the younger generation without either scaring them to death with his usual rasping or making them run for their lives with that cringe-worthy cackle of his – and that was on a _good_ day.

Then again, if the young Lord was able to flirt with a Lords Blade, perhaps unimaginable dreams were more imaginable than he had originally assumed…

The Painting Guardian Commander cleared his mind of such thinking as soon as his Lord began to walk forward. The two of them, along with their trio of elite Guardians were flanked from the entrance of the Throne Room to the centre of it by a literal horde of Silver Knight elite's holding up elegant spears as if they were banners. They remained as motionless as statues as the Ariamian party walked by, the Knights never once wavering in their solemn duty to welcome Anor Londo's visitors into the sphere of their King with utmost poise.

It was quite elaborate, even for the Lord of Sunlight himself, however, that was to be expected when this was a meeting to discuss the marriage of his granddaughter – and the fact that Havel would be his in-law probably made it even more of an occasion to go all out for.

Eventually, after what seemed like drawn out minutes of walking, the Imperious King, and his kinsmen made it to the centre of the room, where a vast distance divided the ruler of Ariamis with his host, the Lord of Sunlight. From this angle, there was enough room for a spar between about six people, and that was if they excused the elevated platform Gwyn and his children were seated, rears resting on plush and extravagant thrones.

Whilst the sight of three gods may have been a shock among shocks for just about anyone that would ordinarily never see divinity, Imperious King Havel merely sniffed in neutrality as he took in the familiar architecture and overly-unnecessary carvings of Gwyn and his children seated above all of them like monolithic statues. He might have been absent from the castle for over a few decades to a century but Havel never really did get over how vain his compatriot was.

"Welcome," Gwyn finally spoke. The Imperious King looked at the Sunbringer as he rose from his throne to greet him. "Imperious King of Ariamis, my old friend and now current ally."

Havel smirked. It was funny just to see his old pal again under normal circumstances, but it was bountifully more hilarious to see the god attempt to act formal towards him; especially after they knew the reason they were forced to meet so soon.

"I see you're missing a statue there, son." Havel replied with a broad smirk on his bearded features as his Right-hand sighed out tiredly into his gloved hand.

A tick-mark appeared on Gwyn's brow as he held back his anger at being ignored. Havel merely offered him a quiet chuckle as the redness on the god's face subsided before he spoke up.

"I'm not mistaken, _Havel_, I'm more than a century your senior."

"Oh?" Havel said, his eyes growing wide as he placed a hand over his mouth. "I think your hearing has degraded since the last time we met. I was referring to you as _the_ sun and not my _son_."

The Lord of Sunlight ground his teeth as Gwynevere let out a chuckle to his left. When he snapped his head towards her however, her giggling stupidity seemed to vanish in an instant as he observed her idly examining the condition of her fingernails. The Sun God growled again before turning back to the King of Ariamis, who had his hands tucked casually behind his back as he whistled out a merry tune that echoed around the vast chamber.

He continued to stare at him until the Imperious King decided to notice his piercing gaze, winking playfully as if he were a kind-hearted grandfather amusing his grandchild. Gwyn's eye twitched in annoyance.

As if tricking him into signing a treaty whilst intoxicated during the grand inauguration wasn't enough, now his damnable son had hoodwinked his Priscilla to the point whereby now she was actually _considering _marriage. And then, as if the ex-Archbishop had no pride whatsoever, he dared to disrespect him in his own castle, within his Throne Room, in _front_ of his vassals' and he **_still_ **wanted to continue this arrangement?! How blasphemous! How fiendish! His compatriot was an arrogant knave, a menace to society, a bloody instigating meddler dressed up as a Lord! So, his hearing was degrading since their last conversation, was it? Did the wrinkled rascal even _remember_ that they had last met three moons ago?! And what of this 'sun' and 'son' jumble he had oh-so-dutifully chosen to explain to him as if he were inept at comprehension, eh? By all right, the fool should be prostrate on the floor _thanking_ him that he hadn't impaled his wayward boy with his lightning already.

Which son had even swindled his dearest grandchild's precious heart in the first place? Was it that calculating and conniving firstborn of his that had subtly told him to piss off during the party? Oh, Havel better pray to him or one of his children that that wasn't the case. He could not and most certainly _would not_ allow that slippery, snooty, sneaky and ulterior motivated pretty-boy to become his grandson-in-law; not even if he was forced to offer his soul to the First Flame in order to save the world! Or perhaps it was this 'other' son that Gwyn had never seen which had claimed his Priscilla's affection? If the rumours were true and he was identical to his cocky elder brother, then it would still be the perfect occasion for him to draw his blade and cleave the sorry sucker in two for daring to annoy him with the same face as the firstborn!

That reminded him, where _was_ that cold-eyed and funny talking son of Havel's anyway? Was he hiding from his glorious rays of omnipotence to ensure his bacon was saved for another day? That was smart of him, but not when he was technically trapped within the very Kingdom Gwyn controlled.

But now there was another matter on the Great Lord's mind. How could he expel this anger festering in his chest now that he had unintentionally thought of one of the last people he would have liked to think about at a time like this? Oh, he knew! He should call for his knights to find and locate the coward. That way, he could publicly beat the scrawny undead to a pulp and his rage at Havel's disrespect would be forgiven! How clever of him. No, really, he was a freaking genius. Well, of course he was, he was the Lord of Cinder after al-

"Father."

"HUH?!"

Gwyndolin flinched as his father's loud voice grated against his sensitive ears. Did he really need to remind him that his crown made noises echo into his head?

"Please come back to Lordran now."

"Did I space out?" his son – or daughter – nodded once before removing his hand from his pauldron.

"You were making the same face you always make when you enter your inner-monologue."

Gwyn frowned. The way the boy – or girl, again, he really didn't know for sure anymore – said it, it sounded as if that look was atrocious. "Is it that bad?"

Gwyndolin took his time to awkwardly look at a smirking Havel and his still giggling sister before he replied with a sigh of his own. "It's terribly creepy, especially at important moments like this one."

The Lord of Sunlight choked on his spit before coughing away the embarrassment. He couldn't believe it. His own flesh and blood thought the pondering looks of his were creepy. How cruel.

"Well you're lively as ever, Grandfather Havel." Gwynevere stated as she smiled kindly at the Imperious King.

"And you're not drunk for a change, dear Gwyni'. It's quite the feat you've achieved!" Havel exclaimed loudly as the Queen of Sunlight giggled into her hand, making Gwyn frown in confusion. Whenever he said things like that to her, she would usually always follow up with an angry look or a bottle thrown his way – not a damn cute giggle and a _smile_.

"Well of course, this _is_ a gathering to discuss my daughter's future, after all."

Havel raised an amused eyebrow in reply. From what Gwyn had told him the night they were alone; she basically didn't give a damn about what happened to her daughter. He wondered what had changed in the few days that had passed them by.

"Indeed, my sister is correct," Gwyndolin quipped as he rose to his full height, slivered down the platform Gwyn and his daughter currently sat on and approached the King of Ariamis. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, dear boy." Havel chuckled as he bowed his head in respect to the Darkmoon Lord. Time might have come and gone and many things may have changed since the days the Imperious King was the Imperious Bishop of Lordran, but he would be damned if he ever forgot about the young last born of Gwyn that had spent nearly all of his time timidly following and listening to him in his early years, an innocent look of wonder and joy on his pale face many, _many_ centuries ago.

"But I must say what a fine man you've grown up to be. Why, you're even taller than I am!"

The Lord of Sunlight ground his teeth for the second time that day as he saw Gwyndolin offer his compatriot a sincere smile that he only ever saw directed toward Priscilla and that knightess he kept around his Order.

If anyone had asked him if he were mildly jealous, he would have abruptly exclaimed the opposite before stomping away in fury. So what if his son – he knew he was a boy all along – treated his comrade more like a father than himself? The undead was probably just his role model or something, and that was nothing to be envious of. Why, if anyone had had the decency to ask, even the God of Lightning had a role model. It was his uncle, Allfather Lloyd. That reminded him, where in the Abyss _was_ Uncle Lloyd anyway? The last he had seen of the alchemist; he was tinkering with those anti-undead charms that Darksign Hunters used to wield before the ascension of the Undead Asylum. And speaking of things that belonged in the Undead Asylum…

"By the way Havel, where _is_ your son to begin with?" the Imperious King and the Dark Sun God halted their conversation to stare back at a frowning Gwyn, his fist pressed against his jaw in question.

"Oh, he's in the main capitol. Most likely fraternizing with the local merchants and mercenaries next to whatever excuse for an eatery you have around here."

"Was he not meant to be in my hall with you as I requested?" Gwyn pushed, ignoring the jab at his economy. It wasn't his fault Ariamis felt more upbeat with its grand restaurants and patisseries as opposed to the local pubs and diner's the Lower Burg had to offer.

"I honestly couldn't say," Havel replied as he strode forward with Gwyndolin, leaving his Right-hand and guards behind to stand at the ready in case he needed them. "I mean, when you think about it carefully, I don't really see your granddaughter here either, Sparkles."

"That would be my fault," the Imperious King turned to see a guilty Gwynevere reclining in her Throne, a bottle of Sun Kiss ale in her hand.

"Where did you get tha-"

"I thought it would be better to allow the adults to handle the inane conversation whilst she enjoyed her time in the sun. Today's a beautiful morning, after all." The Queen of Sunlight finished, cutting of her father who was still confused as to how she had managed to flash out a bottle of their finest brew when she hadn't left her seat from the time they had entered this room. And besides that, hadn't he made it taboo to drink inside his hallowed hall?! What did she think she was trying to do being disrespectful to his wishes in front of his ex-enemy/comrade?

"So basically, you knew I wouldn't bother bringing Argon here in the first place?"

"Sharp as always, Grandfather Havel." she replied with a smile before taking a large swig from her bottle.

"Wait, Gwynevere, you did what?" Gwyn sighed out in exasperation. She was always doing this when it came to the daughter she preferred to ignore via a mountain of beer. And the _one_ time she was even remotely sober about it, she had to go and pull a stunt like this?! What was he going to do with her when she eventually took over the kingdom? He could always make Gwyndolin the next ruler but then the order of eldest would be sullied – and no, he was _not_ going to consider his firstborn after he had got himself exiled and stripped from the annals of history for a dumb lizard with wings!

"Honestly, it was the best option in this case." Gwyn snapped his head toward his last born in shock.

"You too, Gwyndolin?"

The Lord of the Darkmoon turned his crowned face to his father to stare at him blankly. To say Gwyn felt like an absolute fool in that moment would have been an understatement as he hung his head with a loud sigh.

"Well now," Havel murmured after the awkward silence had faded. "Let's get down to business, shall we."

"But of course," Gwynevere replied with rosy cheeks and a droopy smile. Gwyn merely offered her a disgruntled grumble. How she managed to down a full bottle of their best ale without anyone noticing and _still_ remain conscious was anyone's guess.

"Good," smiled the Imperious King before he accepted his Dragontooth from his Right-hand with gusto, "now where's that blind scaly bastard?"

Almost instantly, the trio of gods and the undead ruler simultaneously turned their heads toward the entrance to witness a gargantuan dragon enter the room, clad in nothing but patches of fur and white crystal.

Richter's jaw fell open at the sight of Seath as the Silver Knights parted to allow the Everlasting Dragon to manoeuvre himself into the Throne Room. He had just never seen the famed remaining dragon of old that he felt almost compelled to drop to his knees in respect. For all the Great Lords had done to slay his race, Richter still found dragon's the most magnificent creatures.

"Oh right, I forgot. He's still uglier than shit." Seath turned his large maw in Havel's direction and hissed. The Imperious King merely poked his little finger into his ear as if he were bored. "And you're _not_ scaly, contrary to your race… my mistake again."

Everyone in the room stared at the King of Ariamis and the Duke of Anor Londo as they stared at one another – not that Seath _could_ effectively stare back – before a rush of magic swirled around the dragon in wisps of bright light. And as if Richter couldn't get enough of the Duke's excellent form, he was even more astounded as the paledrake began to _shrink_. As if it were a trick of the light, the Painting Guardian Commander watched as Seath began to grow smaller, his limbs and tails drawing back into his body before his astonished eyes.

He heard Gwyndolin offer a scoff before he saw Seath's head grow flatter, his arms thinner and his body more humanoid. In less than a minute, they all observed as the Everlasting Dragon that once stood above them shape-shifted into a body that was completely human, save for the same trio of tail's still connected to his tailbone. His skin was still as pale as alabaster, and the crystals and fur decorating his body were still present, albeit smaller. Honestly, the first thing that Richter was glad for was that he wasn't nude. In fact, he was wearing a large robe upon his tall and lean body that was coloured bright blue with black trimming.

His face was the most interesting thing to look at, however. He seemed like an average human. No, he was wrong. Seath looked like a _handsome_ human, he didn't care how it sounded. His hair was the same pale blue as his fur, and it cascaded down his shoulders like soft clouds. His eyes were as piercing as ice, and you could tell that his sight was still impaired. However, he approached Imperious King Havel as easily as breathing before continuing to glare at the Ariamis Lord.

"Richter, don't gawk like a grounded fish," Havel spoke. The Right-hand of Ariamis' King blinked before turning to his Lord who gave him a plain look. "What? You think he would have fit inside Gwynevere if he were in his original form?"

For the first time in a long time, Richter's cheeks burst into a ruby red as Havel chuckled and Gwyn growled at the crass remark. The Lord of Sunlight was so peeved by the remark, in fact, that lightning had begun to crackle against his armour as he leered at the Imperious King.

"You watch your mouth, Havel. Ally or not, that's still my daughter you're talking abo-"

"Seeeaaath!" said daughter exclaimed as she crashed into the transformed paledrake faster than a bolt of lightning. The arguing pair of King's stopped their quarrel and Gwyndolin sighed out tiredly as they turned to see an annoyed dragon being glomped by his wife's cleavage, her shapely legs wrapping around his waist as he was forced to hold her up with his clawed fingers.

"It's been _soooo loooong_ since you came out of your Archive! Why don't you ever come by to visit me anymore? Don't you love me anymore? You don't, do you?! WAAAAAHHH!" the Queen of Sunlight cried out as she squeezed Seath tighter in her embrace. It was quite plainly obvious that she was drunk, although the fact that she was acting so vulgarly before her father, brother and Havel was more shocking than the realization that she was Gwynevere. And everyone knew that when Gwynevere was allowed to act like Gwynevere, there was really nothing anyone could do.

One would have thought that their relationship would have been strained after Seath had unofficially ended their marriage. However, with the way Gwynevere was squeezing the life out of the transformed dragon, her overwhelming bust encasing his face, the initial assumption seemed to fly out the window quite quickly.

Nobody said anything for the next few moments as Seath hissed and cussed at the daughter of Gwyn in draconic. The scene itself looked like a razzled married couple, but to the people actually present, it just looked extremely weird considering just who the husband and wife were.

Havel stared at it all before sighing out and running a hand through his beard. "I hope you're grateful, brat. I'm about to become the in-law of my nemesis just so you can be happy."

"What was that?" Gwyn asked him as Havel took a step forward to prevent Seath from blasting Gwynevere with his Crystal Breath out of frustration.

"Oh, nothing," the Imperious King replied, hauling his Dragontooth over his shoulder. "I'm just glad everyone is finally here."

* * *

Crystal clear skies and warm rays of sunlight first thing in the morning was quite the opposite from the crisp mountain air that chilled you like a sweet kiss, but Argon agreed that it was not all that terrible. And with the throng of children currently surrounded around him like he were a puppeteer with fancy marionette dolls on display, how could he _not_ like Lordran in all its glory when he felt like the most revered man in the current square he stood in?

Honestly, he had been hoping to be in the same room as his father and Richter during the discussion with Lord Gwyn and Lady Gwynevere. After all, this _was_ his potential wedding they were all talking about. But no, he had been 'politely' asked by his Imperious King to stay out of it so that the 'adults could chat in private'. Just who the hell did the old bag of bones think he was, exactly, cutting him off from discussing his own wedding? This wasn't the previous generation; he was perfectly capable of planning it himself with his soon-to-be wife! Wait, now he was getting ahead of himself. Him and Princess Priscilla weren't even engaged yet to be thinking about marriage processions. Heck, they hadn't even met for the _second_ time yet.

And yet, as the heir to Ariamis sat there regaling stories to the multitudes of wide-eyed and unblinking children with runny noses and awed expressions, he couldn't help but think that he and the seductive woman with those hypnotic jade eyes and _wonderfully _snuggly tail were just made for one another. Seriously, it was mystifying. One moment he had been content to ignore every and any woman that would have flirted with him, stating something along the lines of 'I'm not ready to commit just yet', and now here he was swooning at the very thought of that crossbreed dressed in teal. How love made someone so meek was another mystery, but for the love of all that was cute and fluffy in this world, Argon really didn't care.

"Wha 'appened next Pwince Ahgon?" the undead prince blinked before looking down at one of the curious children currently hanging onto his waist, his lack of front teeth making him look like an adorable swashbuckling pirate.

"You really want to hear the rest of the story?" he asked the child with a surprised look. The kid didn't disappoint as he and his many, _many_ friends cheered for him to continue his tale, which truthfully sounded like a large choir of little ones singing in unison. He wasn't joking when he said there were a lot of kids around him. Like seriously, did the people in Lordran not know the meaning of birth control or something?

"Alright, fine then," Argon said loudly to silence the noisy crowd, his hands raised up for peace of mind. Almost immediately, the masses shushed themselves as the sound of quiet shuffling grew amongst the ranks of children from four to ten years of age.

The Ariamis heir grinned in triumph, his eyes glinting brighter in the glowing sunshine. If only Lithecore were here to witness his mastery over little kids. He would be impressed, more impressed than the moment he had learned one of Aunt Velka's Miracles. Argon took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming his mind and body so that he could effectively tell the story to its utmost potential. And after a few seconds of him absorbing the light, he snapped his eyes open and at once appeared Argon, the Storyteller.

"So, there we were!" he exclaimed, waving his hands around wildly as the little toddlers and rascals watched in rapt attention. "The night had gone on for quite some time, and the mountain trolls were all arguing with how they were going to cook us."

A few kids near the back gasped in astonishment as he continued on, their gazes following his every expression and their hushed reactions fuelling his tempo.

"One of them argued that they should eat us whole. The other said they should just sit on us one by one and squash us into jelly." Argon made a sour face and a little girl in front of him with bright red pigtails opened her mouth in shock, an almost inaudible 'oh no' escaping her rosy lips as the heir continued.

"But you see, they were so busy arguing that none of them noticed the sun coming up, or the wise wizard who cut the shelter of their cave in half with a tap of his mighty staff." The ones still holding onto their mother's clothing dragged themselves closer to Argon, and his congregation leered forward in anticipation. It seemed that even a few townspeople had come down to listen in on his adventure, not that he minded much.

"And so, whilst they argued, the shelter of their cave fell off with a rumble of grass as the sun spilt forth from the crack in the rock. The mountain trolls were all too late to notice it by the time they turned around. When they had realised what had happened, they had all gone stiff with shock, and then…" Argon trailed off and the children leaned forward, nearly toppling on top of one another as they waited for him to end his story. He smiled wryly before slouching forward.

" _POOF!"_

The children all jumped at the abrupt sound Argon made.

"The sun had turned them all into stone!"

Argon watched as the many, _many_ kids all sighed out in relief, glad that the story about him and his comrades had ended on a good note before bright smiles flooded their faces. He watched as they all scampered away in their numbers, leaving him alone as he reclined against the backrest of the bench he sat on.

Life was always simpler with kids around to even out reality. It was just a shame that there weren't enough people as simple-minded as children were to believe stories like the one he had just told so that an air of mystery and wonder still remained within the domain of the mature.

Argon sighed out with a pleased smile on his face as he drew his Estus Flask from his hip and drank to parch his dry mouth. Lordran had been the complete opposite of what he had originally imagined. When he had thought about the reign of Lord Gwyn, his expectations of the Land of Ancient Lords hadn't looked that bright after all the dark stories his father had told to him and Lithecore when they were younger. In fact, if he had to think about it more clearly, the Imperious King of Ariamis had made Gwyn and Anor Londo out to look like this cold and desolate place ruled by a tyrant and his children. But looking at the bustling stores and shops around him flooded with a diversity of different beings from humans to giants, he knew all his father had placed into his head had been a load of hogwash, hearsay, propaganda to ensure that Argon and Lithecore never stepped foot into the place for eternity.

How ironic it was that _both_ princes had ended up finding an interest in the woman that lived in the very same country their father had done his best to keep them away from.

The funny part was that the reason wasn't out of spite. Sure, Argon could have listened to his wise old man and chosen a Daughter of Chaos like he had been told; however, Queelan was out of bounds and he _really_ didn't want to have Aunt Morwena as a mother-in-law because she was too intense. And Lithecore… well, he could have found any woman he liked since he was Lithecore. The only issue would have been finding the right partner that could stand his normally brash and grouchy personality; and unfortunately for the Imperious King, the only women that were renowned for dealing with men like him… lived in Anor Londo. It was purely dumb luck, or perhaps Murphy's Law that Lithecore had suddenly taken a shine in Gwyn's trusted Lords Blade.

As Argon chuckled to himself and drank from his flask, he noticed the shadow suddenly cast upon his form, blocking out the rays of sunlight he was currently basking in whilst dressed in his formal Ariamian outfit – because this _was_ a visit to another country after all.

_'And just when I thought the sky was clear today,'_ Argon thought with a wistful sigh before opening his eyes.

What greeted him thereafter was the reason he found no sunlight warming his skin, or in this case, the 'cloud' he had been talking about.

The Ariamis heir frowned as he stared up at the man before him, dressed head to foot in an imperial outfit. His boots were polished enough to mirror someone's own reflection, his trousers and jacket were neatly pressed as if it had just been tailored, the engraved plates of metal assigning his rank and meritorious achievements glinted with a fresh chrome tint; and did Argon forget to mention that the guy was nearly ten feet tall?

His face was kind of plain looking if you ignored the thin scar on his cheek and his hair was a light brown that just reached the tops of his ears. His eyes were as steely grey as the medallions on his obviously toned chest, and they were glaring down at him with such ferocity that Argon wondered if now was the time to book it for the nearest Silver Knight. After all, why would a guy that most likely served Lord Gwyn's army be staring down at him with such intensity unless he was rapey?

Nevertheless, the prince of the Northern Kingdom decided to approach the tall-ass monolith in the room with as much civility as he could muster. It would do him no favours to spark a fight when this wasn't his own county anyway.

"Uhm… good morning." Argon said, an awkward smile on his face as he turned his body away from the leering guardsman the length of two dragonslayer arrows.

"What do you mean?" the man replied in a medium tone just in between meek and deep.

"Uh..."

"Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I like it or not?"

Argon opened his mouth to reply but it seemed the walking sign pole still had more to say.

"Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel _good_ on this particular morning?"

Argon raised his hand to speak again. And was interrupted. Again.

"Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good _on_?"

The undead waited for the glaring man – well actually he looked like some type of malnourished giant – to continue talking but found his thin lips unmoving.

"All… All of them at once?" he said uncertainly. "I suppose…"

Silence reigned upon the two of them for a few uncomfortable moments longer and Argon shuffled further away on the bench. Seriously, this weird faced sex offender was really starting to creep him out. Didn't Anor Londo have a patrol unit for these types of things?

"Ah… can I help you?" the undead asked after more time had been spent with him awkwardly moving further and further away from the colossal streetlight.

"That remains to be seen. Are you from Ariamis?" he asked.

"Why, yes. I am, in fact."

_'Please don't ask me for my address. Please don't ask me for my address.'_

"And are you the son of Imperious King Havel?" the man asked, shifting slightly to lean his weight on his other leg.

"Yes…" the heir replied sceptically. Where was the guy going with all of this information, the local Rapists' Inventory of Potential Victims?

"Good." The man replied before drawing a _massive_ greatsword from his back. Even though the mere sight of the weapon was already setting of a wide array of warning bells in his head, Argon wondered why for the life of him, he had missed something so important when doing a once-over of the walking spire. "Glad we could meet face to face after what you pulled a few nights ago."

Argon's amber eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. After what he did a few nights ago? How many bloody nights ago?! Did the tree-hugger know how ambiguous that statement was? He didn't even know what underwear he had pulled on this morning, never mind what he had done a few ambiguous nights ago! And WHY was he drawing his terrifyingly large sword that smelled like wet dog for some unexplainable reason? This was a public place; he shouldn't be causing a ruckus this early in the morning! The glaring grand door handle with limbs probably trod on people's feet on a daily basis when going out to buy bread, imagine how many people he could squash when he was wielding that monstrous sword and running around with those gangly legs?! How could he even hold that heavy sword when he was so limber?

At this point, Argon's brain only registered the sound of metal clanking against the ground before he raised his arms up in placation.

"Listen, I really don't know what I've done to you but I apologise anyway."

"Oh, so your memory is as fleeting as your cockiness, is it?"

"Cockiness?! What cockiness? I haven't even taken my cockiness cocktail this morning, so I don't have a single ounce of cockiness today. Not a drop. No Sir, none at all!"

"Stop saying cockiness and prepare to fight."

"Fight?!" the Ariamis heir exclaimed, getting up and backing away as quickly as he could. Great, so he wasn't going to be raped by a sword-wielding paedophile, just sodomised by his steel. Wait… that sounded worse than he had intended it to.

He watched in terror as the man or giant, or bulletin board – at this point he wasn't picky on what he was called – raised his sword above his head with a single hand, ready to cleave him in half. Argon let out a nervous giggle at the thought that now his father would have three sons instead of two before he snapped out of it and held up a hand.

"Wait, wait, wait! We can't duke it out!"

"And why the hell not?" the man growled.

"Well, for starters, I don't even know who you are-"

"Artorias of the Abyss."

_'Son of a bitch,'_ Argon thought in his head as he gawked at the tall soldier of Gwyn. Now his height and scent of dog made all the more sense. A shame it was in the wrong scenario.

"Well, besides that, we're in a public place. It would be disturbance of the peace if we fought right here and right now."

"The people would understand, it happens almost every day."

_'How often do you challenge people to get their heads severed?!'_ the undead prince exclaimed in his mind.

"T-Then what about my standing? I'm here on official business! Do you know how bad it would look for you if you were to slay the prince of Ariamis?"

"You're undead. You'll live." Artorias replied as he stalked forward, his blade about to tear Argon a new one.

Now, he was screwed. Literally screwed. He didn't know what he had done to piss off the greatest knight in literally the entire _world_ nor did he remember when he had actually met him in person – else he would have recalled the encounter – but he was in hot water now. He couldn't even fight back since he was forced to leave his bottomless box at the customs check of Anor Londo. They had a strict policy against bringing weaponry into the Shining City unless you were a smith, and unfortunately, Argon was more of a destroyer of arms, not a creator of them.

And so, he sighed out and closed his eyes. There would really be no point in fighting back. If he did then he would either ruin Ariamis' reputation with Lordran, and incur the wrath of both his father _and_ Lord Gwyn; or he would die trying to fight the very same knight that had bested the Abyss and killed Manus back when Oolacile had gone to hell in a hand basket.

And this wasn't any form of pessimism talking, Argon was proud of his battle prowess. However, it would be useless when he was up against the Wolf Knight himself, _bare handed_. At least he would die knowing he didn't allow his rashness to get the best of him.

He gulped as Artorias gripped the hilt of his sword with his other hand and corrected his stance. From this angle, he would be dead before he knew it, how merciful of the guy. Wait, was the term 'guy' even appropriate for someone like Artorias? What was his race anyway, demi-god? Half-giant? Maybe just a tall pedo?

"This is what you get for messing with my girl." He said with a snarl.

Argon blinked. What was that? He had flirted with his significant other? That didn't make sense for a number of reasons, foremost due to the fact that he spent most of his time _away_ from women. He had only publicly interacted with the opposite sex at the Ariamis Ball, and even then, he had only danced with Morwena and her daughters. Were one of them betrothed to Artorias? No way, they would have said so.

Wait… did he mean Priscilla? The very same woman he was about to ask to marry him? Gwyn had allowed his subordinate to marry his grandchild? What terrible luck this was!

"Oh my, I am so, _so_ sorry about all this." Argon began only to hear the Wolf Knight chuckle in amusement.

"Oh, you better be sorry."

"And I am! Really, I am. If I had known you and Priscilla were a thing, I would have never, EVER asked her to dance with me at the Ball. But she was just so breath-takingly gorgeous and cute and she did that thing all girls do when they blush at the floor-"

"What are you on about?" Artorias asked in confusion.

"Priscilla. Or Lady Priscilla. You know… Lord Gwyn's grandkid, Queen Gwynevere's daughter… your betrothed."

"Your blasphemy is unthinkable," Artorias muttered, kicking Argon back against a wall. The undead felt the impact like a hammer to the gut and wheezed. What did this guy put in his morning ale? He kicked like a freaking mule!

"Really Lithecore, to think you'd pull this stunt after swindling Ciaran away that night is just low. Now you'll finally pay for your arrogance."

For what felt like the umpteenth time that day, Argon blinked dumbly before all the pieces fit together before he gawked stupidly.

"Wait, you've got the wrong prince!"

"Enough stalling! Stand there and die!" Artorias shouted before hauling his blade forward in a flash of deadly steel.

Argon only had a moment to duck and dash to the side as the wall behind him received a long, jagged gash into it that caused the bricks stacked higher up to collapse onto the cobblestoned floor. Artorias turned and growled at the retreating form of Argon before giving chase.

"Come back here you pathetic undead!" the Wolf Knight shouted.

"I'm not gonna stand there and get ganked by you!" Argon shouted back as he ran.

"Lithecore!"

"I'm not Lithecore dammit, I'm his twin brother!"

"Like I'm going to believe that bold lie!"

"No, I'm serious! My name is Argon," the Ariamis yelped as he dodged a somersaulting Artorias that sliced into the ground next to him, cleaving a nearby cabbage stall in two.

"Oh no! My cabbages!" the cabbage merchant shouted as the green bundles rolled around the square. Argon screamed out an apology as he continued to dash away from one of Gwyn's Elite Four.

"LITHECORE!"

"I'M NOT LITHECORE!"

"COME BACK HERE AND FACE ME!"

"NO WAY IN HELL!"

"COWARD!"

"PEDOPHILE!"

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

"LITHCORE! HELP MEEEE!"

* * *

"HACHOO!" Lithecore sneezed into his palm as he stood in front of a marble lift mechanism the people in Anor Londo preferred to call "The Lord's Express".

A passing townsman with his hair tied up in a messy bun offered him a handkerchief before placing a hand on his shoulder. Whilst the action itself was in good nature, the firstborn of Havel was seriously considering giving the helpful man a free amputation. For one thing, the kindness shown to him meant nothing when he crossed into his personal bubble. And _nobody_ besides an _extremely_ select few were allowed that privilege.

"Gwyn bless you, dear Sir." The man said with a warm smile before he strode on, leaving Lithecore to eye his back with a grimace as his brows crinkled.

"Err…"

Seriously, was everyone in this city just as obnoxious as the Sun above or was it just their nature to intercept your personal space? Personally, he didn't care for an answer so long as he didn't sneeze again. After all, he had only decided to tag along with his brother and father because Lordran was warmer than Ariamis – even if he _did_ possess a separate hatred for the burning orb in the sky.

Okay, perhaps he _was_ here for other reasons. Ciaran, for example, was supposedly off duty today if Argon's spy network was to be trusted – and in most cases, they always were. Call him greedy but he hadn't been satisfied with how they had left their time together so abruptly. Despite her haughty attitude that had humoured his darker nature more than he had thought possible, she had seemed rather monotonous when it was time for her and the flea-infested horn dog to carry an amusingly sloshed Gwyn home, armada in tow. He hadn't bothered to bring it up simply because he wasn't that caring as a person.

Even so, he would be lying if he said that he hadn't been looking forward to another rendezvous whereby he could be himself without being judged for once – because believe it or not playing the perfect strong and silent type in front of visiting nobles now that Ariamis was open for exploration was bloody tiring.

Which is why he had dressed in the itchy fabric his Ariamian garb availed him, left his unfinished tomes and scrolls in the Annex, and come to a place so shrouded in light, he feared his black soul would be purified. What was worse was the fact that Richter had _accidentally_ made himself and Argon matching sets of clothing to wear as they spent the day, or possibly the entire week in Lordran. He just hoped that people wouldn't begin to mistake him for Argon, especially Gwyn and his children. The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for his idiotic twin brother only to be betrothed to the crossbreed he fancied whilst the man in question was still busy eating breakfast. Now that he thought about it, was it really a good idea to tag along, after all?

Lithecore shook his head, rich black locks whipping around his face. Of _course,_ it was a good idea. Despite his reclusive nature, he was going through all this trouble because he required mental sustenance. And, whether he called it for what is was or not, the quiet Lords Blade was the only one that could provide him with just that.

The heir didn't care whether it went against everything he had stood for in the past few years, or whether chasing after that gold and black-eyed minx would find him incurring the wrath of Artorias. As far as he was concerned, Ciaran was too driven on protecting her Lord to even process dog-boy's feelings. By the time she would even begin to understand her comrade properly, it would either be when he was to embark on a perilous journey alone, or when he had given up on his unrequited love.

With that information in the air, there wouldn't be an issue with Lithecore stepping in to seize the moment. It was seemingly impossible for anyone that knew him well to comprehend the fact that he had suddenly grown feelings for someone other than himself, but everyone knew that when the firstborn of Imperious King Havel made up his complex mind, there was literally nothing that could possibly stop him.

Now, despite his drive to see a certain elite knight of Gwyn and call it anything but love, there still remained one simple yet infuriating issue at hand. One that delayed the prince from taking a step forward in fear that it might cause him to take four more backwards.

And what was the issue at hand that had the infamously brilliant heir of Ariamis glaring at the floor of busy street he was currently standing in, one might ask?

Well, it was simple: Lithecore was lost.

Misplaced, confused, path-muddled, foot locked and stuck like a poor fool traversing through Darkroot Wood without so much as a lantern to light the way of poisonous Ent's acting as ugly shrubs.

It wasn't a surprise to him that he was lost, however. It was common knowledge that he _would_ eventually find himself on the wrong path or taking the incorrect turn. After all, he _was_ a visitor in this land of sunshine, smiles, and terrible excuses for establishments of fine dining.

But what had placed him in a foul mood had been the fact that he, Lithecore, had just realised that he was useless at adhering to directions.

It had been both a shot to his pride as a superior undead and the fact that his flawless ability at comprehension had failed him when he needed it most.

He had originally been within Anor Londo's central plaza alongside Argon as he amassed a massive crowd of children to regale a tale or two to. There hadn't been any issue then besides the fact that his brother was over-emphasizing the story in order to get a rise out of the sea of toddlers too transfixed to speak.

The issue had arisen only when his glowing eyes had been snagged by the sight of golden hair that shimmered in the light. He knew there was no guarantee that the woman he had found himself staring at during that time was the Lords Blade he seemed infatuated with. After all, almost half of Anor Londo's population of human's possessed blonde hair. But had his overly complex and calculative mind listened to that strand of perfect logic? No Sir, instead of listening to it like he always used to, he had instead allowed his hyperactive nerves allow his feet to take the lead, chasing after the form of a female that was in all likelihood _not_ Ciaran.

After walking through endless loops, stalls, stores, parks and guard posts, he had eventually found himself on the highest level of the city, leading directly toward the Grand Archive of Seath. By then, it was only after he had lost sight of his supposed target that he had asked a knightess dressed in irregular brass armour for directions to the Lords Blade barracks – intent on locating her at the source if he couldn't manage to discover her by prancing around. Unfortunately, that whole encounter with the woman had been more infuriating than speaking with Logan who nagged incessantly for a peek into his study. And when she had _finally_ offered a brief set of simple instructions, he had wound up lost and annoyed in the centre of yet another busy walkway.

Lithecore growled to himself as he descended down the Lord's Express, garnering a cautious glance from the person next to him. In response, the undead prince snapped his head toward the nosey inhabitant and offered the man a smouldering gaze. When the marble lift they were standing on came to a stop, he watched as the local man scurried away with haste down the spiral staircase, making Lithecore sighed out. What was wrong with him today that he couldn't even follow _directions_ properly?

Perhaps that knightess had fed him with false information? The firstborn hummed in thought as he slowly descended the stairs and passed by a pair of Silver Knights. He couldn't exactly be angry at the woman for doing such a thing. It was clear that she was also an occupant of the Shining City – if the Darkmoon Blade talisman strapped to her sword was any indication – so it was only natural that she was reluctant to offer that information.

Then again, he hadn't exactly felt any dishonesty in her voice, so perhaps this was just a simple case of him being bad at following instructions. Although, that didn't explain his sense of misplacement after he had passed the statue of Ornstein flanked by a pair of Sentinels that she had spoken of, rounded the corner at the base of some moving stairway watched over by a helmed gargoyle and _still_ missed the explained location of the barracks he sought.

It could have been that the knightess had just gotten her places mixed up. Whilst such things were of common error, it was very disappointing for a soldier of the Kingdom to forget her bearings that easily, especially one apart of Gwyndolin's covenant of extremist's.

As the sun continued to shine upon Lithecore's back, making tiny beads of sweat form on his pale brow, he decided to seek shelter within a nearby building. Upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of a few of Ariamis' Painting Guardians standing around a large room being redecorated. Lithecore blinked at the scene before recognition flashed across his gaze. So _this_ was the hall they were to use for his brother's engagement ceremony.

Elegant swathes of fabric swam against the windows of the expansive room in hues of cream, silver and light blue. Slabs of granite stood upon smooth wood, carrying platters and trays for the various participants of said ceremony to enjoy whilst the soon-to-be betrothed couple partook of the rituals of both Ariamis and Lordran.

In all honesty, Lithecore didn't know what these rituals and traditions entailed, and whether a dowry would have to paid from their side since Argon was the suitor, he did not know either. However, if Anor Londo _did_ end up receiving a dowry for their princess, he was sure that the price would be near extortionate given that Priscilla was the daughter of both the paledrake and the goddess of Fertility. In Lithecore's mind, he wondered on how Gwynevere could possess such a title in the first place. After all, she drank enough to drown a brewery a hundred times over. With that in mind, how was it possible that she was still fertile when everything she touched either broke, shattered, had a life-threatening nosebleed or was drained till the last drop? And besides her scriptures of healing and guidance, there wasn't much that _was_ godly about her constant drunk persona.

He didn't really mean to aim low, but it had been over a thousand years and she hadn't even used her magical prowess to do anything of general use to anyone. Perhaps all her blessings and power had just filtrated into that chest of hers. Perhaps the reason she was still referred to as a being of Fertility was due to the male species of any race regaining their lost libido after just glancing at those overly large fun bags?

Lithecore huffed in amusement as he thought about it. If that line of thinking were true, then at least that age-old saying of being reborn by her 'rejuvenating bosom' held an inkling of truth to it.

As the heir of Ariamis chuckled to himself, he caught the sound of a soft gasp that forced him to turn around. His amber eyes widened as he was greeted by a surprised Priscilla.

Or, it _looked_ like the crossbreed princess his brother was smitten for. In truth, Lithecore had only heard of the woman, not having the chance to meet her in person due to his time whisking away Ciaran from an irate Artorias.

He raised an eyebrow as her face turned scarlet at the sight of him, and it was obvious why, considering the Painting Guardians of Ariamis and handmaidens of Gwynevere still fixing various accessories to her clothing and hair.

She was dressed very similarly to her out of control mother, fine silk that wrapped around the curve of her hips and fullness of her breasts whilst thin gold bands gripped her pale wrists and ankles like expensive shackles – or at least… he saw them that way.

Her dainty feet sported open-toe scandals that reached halfway up her calf in design, and upon her head rested quite the graceful crown for her quiet nature. Her silver hair was allowed to roam free as it cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk, whilst her bangs were clipped to her temples, exposing her flawless neck and shoulders.

Where her flat stomach and toned arms and legs were visible to be flaunted, the handmaidens had painted pretty designs in gold and white, forming beautiful tribal markings that curved around her modest muscles and accentuated the glow of her skin. There was no need to apply anything to her face, but the Painting Guardians had added gentle strokes of blush to her already rosy cheeks just in case, and the corners of her eyes were painted just right that those deep green eyes of hers stood out like glittering emeralds amidst pure alabaster.

Lastly, her fluffy tail remained as it was. However, from the way it wagged from side to side in what seemed like anxiety, he wagered that even if they had placed anything on the appendage, it would had been thrown off by now with how rapidly it was moving.

When the firstborn of Ariamis took all of this in with his usual stoic face, he could understand why she was a flustered mess before him. On the one hand, she was obviously not used to wearing something so revealing that the insecurity of all beings that were introverted required that she cover up. On the other, the fact that he was here resulted in this extreme sense of embarrassment.

Whilst he hadn't been granted the courtesy of meeting her, he doubted she would have gotten to know who he was either. And whilst her frozen stare was proof of just how identical he and Argon were, it was _not_ a pleasing feeling when the woman was acting this way towards her supposed _brother-in-law_. Although, he repeated again, she couldn't have known that he wasn't Argon.

_'That idiot had better **teach** her the difference between the two of us **soon**.' _

Speaking of his foolish brother that was "Sun-Bro's" with that aloof Premier of Astora, he didn't see him anywhere around. It was agreed that whilst their father and Richter handled the terms of negotiation for the crossbreed's hand with Gwyn and his posse, Argon was to meet Priscilla here. The notice of engagement was to be a surprise for her which was why she was to be donned in _this_ expressive attire by both their Kingdom and her own. Lithecore already knew that she wouldn't refuse the offer, after all she was about to combust at the sight of him and he wasn't Argon. A part of him briefly wondered what the younger twin had done to garner such a reaction from her.

"A-A-Ar…gon?" she sputtered out, her ears turning equally crimson as Lithecore remained where he was, staring at her blankly – which seemed to cause her to blush more than if he were to react any way else. Honestly, if the woman before him had just been a certain Lords Blade instead of his brother's fiancé-to-be perhaps his heart would have done more than beat like some lethargic hunk of flesh barely hanging onto life.

"U-Uhm," Priscilla stared at the ground in uncertainty, wringing her hands as her tail convulsed in on itself. "It- Its good to s-see you again… after out last e-encounter."

Where _was_ that idiot, Lithecore thought as he continued to observe the crossbreed. He had last seen him in the central plaza enjoying his time with the kids around him. And before he had left, Lithecore had seen his brother reclining against a bench as he was approached by some tall guard in uniform.

So, what could have happened for him to be taking so damn long? Lithecore knew that there were many people in Anor Londo that knew of the two of them, especially since the Ariamis Ball. It was possible that Argon could have been mistaken for him at one point or another by various other merchants and potential clients of Ariamis. After all, he had done _quite_ a lot of networking that night before he had decided to screw with Gwyn's Elite Four. Could it have been possible that Ciaran had found his brother and mistaken Argon for him?

Lithecore let out a deep sigh. Ciaran would have figured out that Argon wasn't him after an exchange of words, and his brother was not shy to exclaim his identity. The Lords Blade would have believed Argon by that point. However, what about Lithecore's pesky rival who wore the constant fragrance of wet dog? Artorias may have been an exceptional knight, but he was still prideful as a male. He wouldn't see logic when the love of his life was at stake, and thus would ignore the facts staring him right in the face even if Argon had screamed it to his face.

The firstborn's eyes widened in realisation. That tall guard he had glimpsed walking up to Argon had been _way _taller than a human or undead. And that sword he had carried on his back was not something an average knight of Gwyn would be swinging around.

"I-Is everything… alright?" Priscilla asked in worry as the undead before her facepalmed with a sigh.

"Oh _no._"

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse. Lithecore groaned, brushing a hand through his hair. Sometimes it was a curse to be right all the time.

* * *

Gwyn watched as Seath walked off with a displeased look marring his flawless features, his left arm caught in the vice that was Gwynevere's embrace. It had been a surprise just seeing him anywhere besides his Archive, and the fact that Havel had remained placid in the face of one of the reasons he had left Lordran was an even greater shock to the god of Lightning.

Then again, it wasn't like killing the paledrake would have garnered him much besides an age-old satisfaction. For both their sakes, the god was just pleased they hadn't butted heads, even during the planning of the procession that Seath seemed to completely ignore in favour of calling Priscilla's affairs something 'not worthy of his time'.

Honestly, the Sunbringer had been prepared to plant a fistful of his power into the arrogant fool's face for such disrespect. Whether or not the dragon gave a damn, that was _still_ his grandchild, and he would do anything to see her happy for once.

That being said, the discussion they had all engaged in pertaining to said crossbreed had finally been formulated. And despite his immense repulsion at being the Imperious King's family, he knew it didn't matter whether he liked it or not. Because whilst his will was infallible and his decree unbending, he was still a hopeless grandfather.

Gwyndolin had said it many times in the past. In fact, he was just about sick of being scolded at for 'spoiling Priscilla' too much. Why his last born thought he held sway over what he did was questionable enough, but _nobody_ would tell him how to treat his grandchildren – and that included Ella Cinder's trio, even if his firstborn refused to allow him to see them face-to-face.

The Lord of Sunlight stepped out of his castle, his soon to be in-law following by his side whilst his attendants and Gwyndolin remained within the Throne Room. Apparently that Right-hand of Havel's had requested something from his son who had surprisingly complied. Gwyn knew his last born to usually be as monotone as the helmed gaze of the Giant Blacksmith. He didn't spend time with people besides when it came to his follower's and was rarely seen by anyone besides the knights in the castle. However, the god would be lying if he said it wasn't pleasing to witness the boy engage with others, even if those others in turn _where_ the vassals of his frenemy – yes, that was right, he kept up with the times enough to know _some_ colloquial.

"So, this is really going to happen, isn't it?" Gwyn turned to his compatriot with a wistful smile. It seemed that it was only yesterday that they were battling against the Everlasting Dragons together, and but a few hours ago that they were at each other's throats, weapons drawn. How the time flew by.

"It is," Havel replied, "but only if your granddaughter accepts Argon's proposal of marriage." The two of them shared a chuckle as the residents of Anor Londo bowed before parting to allow them safe passage.

That had been the agreement. The wedding would only occur if, and only if, Priscilla accepted Havel's boy on one knee. Whilst that guaranteed that both parties were in accord with such an implication, the engagement ceremony itself would still need to be undertaken. After all, the boy needed to prove his worth as both an undead, heir of Ariamis, and his salt as a man. If the twin of that cocky firstborn could do as he, Gwyndolin _and_ Havel expected of him, then he was free to marry his beloved Priscilla. No weaklings would be allowed to marry into his divine line, that was something he would ensure until his dying breath. Whether or not the heirs of his mighty line of Cinder _were_ allowed to marry who they pleased, those suitors would still need to prove they were worthy of calling themselves part of the family by impressing both himself, the Lord of Sunlight and the Dark Sun God. That _was_ tradition now that the times had changed.

However, that didn't excuse the _secondary_ ceremony the boy would have to take after the first was over. And by that, Gwyn meant a relaxing _talk_ about the consequences if he **_ever_ **did anything to disrespect his grandchild. Needless to say, this Argon would have already had the talk about manly integrity with the Ariamis King, but he would ensure it was revised for the second time; just to remind the fellow of why he possessed a flaming greatsword that could cut _mountains_ like they were wood.

Havel and Gwyn approached Anor Londo's famed moving stairway as it ascended to their level. The Sunbringer was most proud to be displaying this new addition to his city now that the Imperious King was here. For one, the contraption itself was a work of timeless ingenuity, crafted by the finest architects and modelled by Seath himself to become a main point of travel between various sections of his Kingdom when time was of the essence. The second reason was so that he could simply brag to his comrade. It had been so long since they had convened, and in Anor Londo no less that he had been looking forward to this – even if his poker face was as stoic as Ornstein was overdramatised.

"How many of these things do you have?" Havel asked with a displeased groan, motioning toward Gwyn's marvel of shining stone and sparkling steps.

"I thought you enjoyed such an advanced form of travel?" Gwyn countered, a frown on his face. Well now his plan of surprising his compatriot was a bust. Seriously, when did the ex-Bishop become so difficult to please?

"It's not that, Gwyn," the Imperious King replied as they climbed aboard the moving stairway. "It's shaped like a tower is all."

The Lord of Sunlight sweat-dropped.

"Don't tell me you still hold onto that time Morwena locked you in the base of that tower decades ago? It was just a dumb prank."

Havel bristled in insult. "That _prank_ made me CLAUSTROPHOBIC that I can't even sit in my own study without the windows and doors open!"

The Sunbringer raised his hands up in defence. It seemed Havel became grouchy in his elder years as well. It would at least make conversation humorous at the dinner table.

"Right, sorry for hitting a sore spot."

"It's not a sore spot!"

"Would you stop shouting, I'm _right_ next to you!"

"Too bad, I can't hear myself think over the noise this stupid contraption makes!"

"DON'T CALL MY MOVING STAIRWELL STUPID!"

"THEN STOP HITTING MY SORE SPOTS!"

"YOU JUST SAID IT _WASN'T_ A SORE SPOT!"

"I WAS LYING YOU DOLT! GET WITH THE TIMES, EVERYBODY LIES!"

The Silver Knight that was pushing the gigantic crank next to them simple shook his head as he continued with his task. One would have sworn the two of them were like an old married couple.

* * *

"This is actually pretty nice." Gwyn whistled in appreciation as the two Lord's observed what the Painting Guardians of Ariamis had done with his Painting Hall.

Havel huffed, shrugging off his friend's hand from his shoulder with a smug grin. "As if I needed you to tell me that."

Gwyn guffawed.

_'Cheeky bastard.'_

He and Havel walked around the expansive hall, taking in each detail of fine beautification. To say the Lord of Sunlight was impressed would have been an understatement. He would never had thought of using a hall he had all but abandoned for use as the venue for his granddaughter's engagement ceremony.

The hall they stood in had previously been home to many masterful pieces of his countries painter's and portraitists after Ariamis, the first King of the Northern country and creator of the enormous art piece against the far wall, had paid homage to the Sunbringer eons ago. So many of his kinsman had taken that masterful work of art so seriously that Gwyn had ended up naming the unused building the Painting Hall.

In all that time, he had never guessed that the day he would need to spend time in it again would be the day Ariamis and Anor Londo would be joined by more than just a slip of paper. It seemed fate was never too old to surprise him in his golden years.

"Now, where's your boy? It's about time we got ready."

Havel scratched his chin as he surveyed the place. It was snazzy and fit for someone like his Argon, and judging from the plentiful information the undead had spewed at him the previous night about the daughter of his sworn nemesis, Seath, it looked as if the two of them shared the same tastes with regard to colours and various other tid-bits.

Come to think of it, the Imperious King had almost been drowned with the amount of knowledge his boy had on the Princess of Anor Londo; enough to make him judge his spontaneously chipper heir with a critical eye – what exactly had the two of them done that night for him to be so smitten for her?

After a few moments of silence, the King of Ariamis grunted before letting out a sigh.

"He's not here yet."

Gwyn turned to his comrade and frowned. "What do you mean he's not here yet?"

"Just like I said. He's not here."

"How can he not be at his own _engagement ceremony_, Havel?" the god of Lightning asked in mild panic. In reply, the undead merely waved him off as if it were nothing to worry about.

There was a _lot_ to worry about, though. For one, the ceremony would proceed soon, and by that he meant right _now._ Secondly, what besotted man showed up late to his own engagement? Especially one that was apparently 'over the Darkmoon' with glee? Gwyn growled in annoyance. The boy had better not begin to think about turning tail now, not when he had been forced to endure all this inane talk and negotiation for the sake of both his and Havel's Kingdom. Otherwise, there would be much more than a lightning bolt coming for that sorry excuse for an hei-

"Oop, found him." Havel breathed nonchalantly before walking toward said son and the person standing next to him that looked suspiciously like Priscilla.

When Gwyn actually turned to look, he realised that it _was_ Priscilla, and his scowl dissolved into the widest grin possible.

This Argon looked every bit the same as his detestable elder brother. the same height, slender yet muscular build, long raven hair that reached his high cheekbones, glowing – or were they burning – amber irises which contrasted against his extremely pale skin tone and pronounced jawline.

If Gwyn hadn't known any better, he would have assumed the undead was just sickly. However, when he had reached the trio's side and stared down at the shorter being, he understood that those darkened eye-sockets of his were merely due to a lack of sleep. Or perhaps he was just born like that? Either way, it was just annoying to the Sun God. Everything about him was annoying to Gwyn, he was the brother of that _Lithecore_ after all.

"Grandfather Gwyn?" Priscilla greeted him with a soft tone that made his smile grow even wider. In comparison to the sadly dressed Ariamian next to her, his granddaughter was 'dressed to the nines', as it were. Sure, it was a ceremonial garment that didn't hide much, but his line of Cinder possessed a tradition that was proud to display one's body. Despite the fact that she reminded him of a smaller Gwynevere – a thought that honestly made him want to shed a tear, but he wouldn't; especially not I front of _Havel_ of all people – she looked absolutely stunning. Then again, there was no doubt that she wouldn't appear breath-taking. She _was_ his granddaughter.

As for the various trinkets adorning her hair and the transparent shawls draped around her neck, arms and waist – no doubt apart of Ariamian tradition – they did a good job in accentuating her beauty further. Gwyn had to give Havel props on that, he would have never though that frozen wasteland was able to beautify anything given their primitive culture.

Whilst Gwyn thought that to be fact, the actual truth of the matter was that he was attempting not to seethe in jealousy. First Ariamis had hosted a magnificent Ball that would be difficult for even him to pull off, then he had created a plain hall into a chamber of wonder that didn't even resemble the basic white room it had previously been. And now, they had added minute but significant detail to his granddaughter's attire that made her sparkle like twinkling titanite.

"My child, you are looking absolutely beautiful today."

Priscilla blushed at the compliment Gwyn threw her way. The god adored it. She was as shy and withdrawn as usual but the redness of that face spoke wonders today. He had truly been a fool in his past to not understand the importance of being there for his own children when Gwynevere had married Seath – a terrible mistake in and of itself but since it had made Priscilla he wasn't really complaining – and the growing up of his last born from those days he was but a little runt curiously peering up at him through those big eyes of his.

Perhaps the reason he had withdrawn from his fatherly duties had been due to his firstborn's wrongdoing, or perhaps he had just been that way from the start. However, he was glad that despite everything he had done, he had still been offered a second chance to live happily with his family. Perhaps he could still try and rekindle what embers of relation remained with himself and his firstborn? Even if it was a stretch, he would at least try to make things right, despite his resentment toward the God of War for his betrayal.

Gwyn was interrupted from his thoughts, however, when he looked down to see his son-in-law to be giving him a distasteful cringe.

The Lord of Sunlight internally burned with fury as light sparks of golden energy rippled across his breastplate. The fool dared to look at him like he was some kind of creep, did he? Well, he would see just how far that lip of his could curl when he ripped the damned things off his tiny face!

"Ah, Priscilla, how you've grown." Yet again, Havel interrupted his thoughts as he moved forward to hold his granddaughter's hands. Seriously, what was up with him and ruining his dark machinations? Was the undead psychic? Wait, what was he thinking? This was Havel he was talking about.

"Lord Havel," Priscilla said in confusion as he allowed the Imperious King to kiss the back of her hand. Although she had spent most of her free time in Ariamis whenever she could, and she would be lying if she said the snowy empire didn't feel like her home away from home; she couldn't recall if she had ever really met the Monarch of the North. She had seen him during the Ball, of course, and he had looked as wonderfully regal and imperious as his title suggested. However, she hadn't spoken to him at all… she had been too busy dancing with Argon. She blushed at the thought of the dreamy undead before replying. "Have we… met before like this in person?"

"Oh, not at all," the Imperious King laughed before slapping Gwyn on the spine. Priscilla lifted a hand to block the smile she was sporting as her grandfather glared at the King. "However, I'm sure we'll be getting to know each other more _very_ soon, eh?"

He offered her a wink and she frowned in confusion. What did he mean by that exactly?

"So," Havel and Priscilla turned back to Gwyn as he stared directly at the heir of Ariamis with a steely gaze, potent enough to make an enormous boar have a heart attack. "You're Argon, are you?"

Havel looked at his son. He was surprisingly calm despite the current situation, which was odd when he normally never shut up. Although, perhaps the fact that he was ready to settle down had matured him somewhat, and if so, the Imperious King would accept that decision with pride in his heart. It wasn't every day he got to see his foolish boy become a man.

"You look exactly like your snivelling elder brother." Gwyn nodded to himself as Priscilla opened her mouth to interrupt him but was hushed by his raised hand. She seemed stranger than usually today, was her attraction to this undead really that strong?

"Actually, I'm Lithecore."

Havel nearly slipped on the smooth floor and cracked his skull.

"Lithecore?! What are you doing here?"

"Honestly, I don't _know_."

"What do you mean you don't know?!"

"Honestly, I don't _know._"

"I heard you the first time, stop repeating yourself!" Havel screamed and his son raised his hands up submissively.

"Just making _sure_ your hearing is still _sharp_."

Havel sighed. Just what he needed, the _wrong_ brother in the _right_ place.

"Havel," the Imperious King turned his head toward his compatriot tiredly. He knew what was coming, he just didn't want to endure it. He hated to admit it but he was old, his back was always sore, he was depressed that he was bald, and he was a head shorter than Gwyn. Why couldn't he be allowed but _one_ day of rest?

"What is the meaning of this?" the god said, glaring daggers at the firstborn of Ariamis. He couldn't believe it, the obnoxious undead was here, in his kingdom, next to his grandchild, staring at him as if he were _bored_.

"Well obviously, the wrong son is here."

"That's _harsh_, even from _you_, father."

"Hush boy," Havel warned him as he turned back to Gwyn. "It seems I mistook my son's."

"How does a father _not_ know his own heir's apart?" Gwyn sighed exasperatedly. Damn, what he would have given to have a stiff drink so that he could endure this torture until the end.

Havel's eye twitched in annoyance. "Don't you dare take pity on me. You didn't know whether Gwyndolin was male of female until I pointed it out." he watched as the Lord of Sunlight coughed awkwardly.

"You knew?"

"Everyone in the damn Throne Room knew, including that poor boy. And you call _me_ pathetic!"

"At least my boy would have come to his own engagement ceremony on _time_."

"Are you two _really_ going to argue in front of everyone _now_?" Lithecore asked with a deadpan expression.

"SHUT UP LITHECORE!" both King's turned and screamed at the undead before glaring at one another like animals.

The heir of Ariamis sighed, combing a hand through his hair as he wondered why he didn't just leave to find Ciaran yet whilst Priscilla simply stood there in utter befuddlement. Why was Imperious King Havel here in the first place? And why was Uncle Gwyn arguing with him over Argon's engagement ceremony? Come to think of it, who was Argon getting engaged to? He hadn't said anything about getting married. Was it to someone in Anor Londo? Why was Lord Havel here then, and why did the sighing undead next to her look identical to Argon?

The crossbreed let out a puff of icy air as she placed a hand to her head. This was getting more complexing by the minute and she didn't even know why she was here, dressed up in ceremonial attire, no less.

"I don't see why you're overreacting Gwyn. I mean, it's not like you've decided on the proper trial for my son and your grandchild's engagement."

Priscilla gawked at the Imperious King as she turned redder than the setting sun as Lithecore attempted to fan her with his hand before she fainted. Now she wished she hadn't heard at all. Her and Argon's ENGAGEMENT?! Who? What? When? Where? Why? How had such a thing occurred, and why was she only hearing about it now?! Not that she was complaining, she would love to get married to Argon. He embodied everything she thought the ideal suitor would have, after all; and after he had danced with her in the empty Ariamian market place that shone in the bright moonlight, she would be lying to herself if she said she hadn't already fallen for the undead completely. However, at the same time didn't this sudden act of betrothment sound too quick? She meant that they had only just met. They should get to know each other that much before considering going further in their confusing mix of a relationship that spanned a single night. Besides, she didn't even know how many children he wanted to have, or if he was more submissive or dominant as a partner- oh, there goes her blush again, dammit!

"Oh, there's plenty to overreact for, like the fact that your son hasn't even had the decency to find Priscilla and ask for her hand yet." Gwyn bit back. "If you haven't forgotten, my trial will only begin on the condition that she _accepts_ his offer in the first place!"

Accept his offer? He was going to do that today?! Was that why she had been changed into this extremely embarrassing garb by her handmaidens and beautified like some piece of art by the quiet Painting Guardians in this elaborately decorated hall? Why hadn't Uncle Gwyndolin said anything to her, or Grandpa Gwyn for that matter?! This was her future they were talking about after all? Heck, she didn't even know whether she _would_ agree to Argon's proposal now that she thought about it.

Then again, if she were to think about I logically, this was her chance. Granted she didn't know the handsome undead that well – despite the fact that he seemed virtuous enough in her book – she wouldn't really get another opportunity to marry someone of her own choosing. And speaking frankly Argon was a catch, one of the rarest fish in the proverbial sea. There were probably hordes of women gunning him from the furthest corners of the world itself. If she didn't sink her teeth into him, someone else will. And whilst she really wanted to take the time to get to know him better, doing so would result in her losing him entirely – which was the last thing she wanted!

"I'm well aware of the conditions, which is why I insist you relax."

"Relax," Gwyn scoffed before pointing to the opened doors of the Painting Hall. "The ceremony is almost about to begin and we have no answer yet. How can I relax?!"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the answer, it's quite clear from Priscy's blushing face that she's more than happy to comply."

"Don't give her a cute nickname like you're already her father-in-law."

"Oh, come now, you're just jealous _you_ didn't think of it first."

"Why, you- Argh!"

"Ooh, that _had_ to smart." Priscilla looked at a cringing Lithecore whilst Gwyn's armour began to crackle with lightning.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon." Havel said as he adjusted the cuffs of the suit he wore.

"Perhaps if we knew _when_ soon was exactly." Gwyn muttered.

And that was when Argon broke through the side window of the Painting Hall, tumbling like a ragdoll thrown by a giant. That example wouldn't have been too far off either, as a casually dressed Artorias swaggered in through the very same broken window, startling the nearby servants, and causing the Painting Guardians to draw their blades at the sight of the Knight's gleaming greatsword.

The four beings that had been preoccupied in their debate exchanged confounded looks before the wheeze of a certain amber-eyed undead caught their attention.

" _Phaaah, _that hit worse than a Dragontooth to the spleen." Argon groaned on the floor as he shakily got to his knees. Unfortunately, when he looked up, it was not the snarling face of Artorias that stared back at him, but the furiously blushing stare of Priscilla as she froze, dainty hands indecisive on whether to cover her exposed stomach or chest.

She got her reply when a trickle of blood began to run from the undeads nose as his jaw dropped in surprise at her.

"Uhh…" he murmured out as he stood there, eyes roaming over her toned legs and taut stomach before landing on her green eyes. "Hi." Was all he could say during his state of temporary numbness. If he was having second thoughts about wanting to marry, they had certainly fled from his mind now. By Lloyd, what was she wearing?! Not that it was a bad thing, in fact, he loved every morsel of clothing – or rather lack of clothing – she had on; from the tribal paint marking her porcelain skin and wrapping around her curvaceous hips, to the cute pins in her hair and did he forget to mention how much more alluring her eyes seemed this morning? Whatever the Painting Guardians had done they had just made her look like the freaking goddess of goddesses.

Whilst Argon was too busy being transfixed with his crossbreed fiancé-to-be, he hadn't taken note of the stomping footfalls of Artorias as he raised his blade to impale the heir through the chest.

"Payback's a bitch isn't it Lithecore?" the Wolf Knight breathed with a look of triumph on his face.

"And you'd know _all_ about that, I _suppose_."

Artorias snapped his head up to see the smirking face of the firstborn of Ariamis standing next to Priscilla. He furrowed his brow as he looked back down at the undead he had been chasing since the market place before he finally acknowledged the presence of the Imperious King and the Lord of Sunlight.

"Lord Gwyn!" he said before bowing.

"Artorias?" Gwyn frowned.

"Argon!" Havel exclaimed in joy.

Said undead looked up at his father before the confusion bug decided to bite him in the neck as well.

"Old man?"

The undead received a flat stare as he was pulled to his feet before Havel slapped his arm in annoyance. "Don't go disrespecting your father in front of his compatriot."

"Father?" Priscilla mouthed – shocked and overjoyed that it was true – before the stares of the other five men were firmly planted on her.

"Unfortunately." Lithecore sighed out before he also received a Havel slap to the head.

"Shut it Lithecore."

"Wait," Artorias said and lowered his sword. "So _you're_ Lithecore?"

"I told you so." Argon mumbled out as he rose to his feet. "We're twins. See the difference now?"

Artorias looked between the two for a moment before sheathing his blade with a _humph_. How was he supposed to know the difference between the two when they were identical?

"So, _why_ was he out to have your _head_?" Lithecore asked. Priscilla's head swung towards Argon who scratched his head in annoyance.

"He thought I was you. Apparently, you stole his girl?"

"Hah. As if the _Lords Blade_ belongs to anyone to be _stolen_." The Wolf Knight snarled at the Ariamis firstborn.

"Is it possible that Sir Lithecore fancies Lady Ciaran?" Priscilla chimed in next to the heir. Lithecore nodded once.

" _Something_ like that."

"It's either you do or you don't, Lithecore." Artorias spat. "Don't think you can toy with her like you did last time."

Lithecore stared at the Knight before his mouth grew into a cocky grin. "Oh, I did _way_ more than toy with her that night, _dog boy_."

Both Argon and Priscilla flushed red at the implication – that was most likely just a ploy – before they saw the Wolf Knight approach the first heir of Ariamis with murder in his eyes.

"Ah-ha! I've got it!" Gwyn exclaimed as everyone swivelled their heads the other way around.

"Finally! If the Lord of the Sun gets it, why can't you, eh?" the undead grumbled before poking the Wolf Knight in the chest.

"What _exactly_ did you get, Gwyn?" Havel asked, shushing his son as he approached the Sun God.

"The ceremonial trial, of course." Gwyn grinned, pointing his smile directly at Argon as he strode forward.

"Oh? Great, now all we need is the agreement from both sides." Havel nodded.

"Wha?" Argon said, flashing his gaze from his father to Gwyn in confusion.

"That's simple," Gwyn huffed and looked at his grandchild, "Priscilla, you don't have a problem marrying the heir of Ariamis, right?"

"W-W-W-Well I uh, Hmm, well I don't m-mind him that muc-"

"Great! She accepts. The ceremony won't be called off." Gwyn smiled, shaking hands with Havel as if they hadn't been fighting less than a minute ago. Lithecore raised an eyebrow at the two. The two of them were a perfect bipolar match.

"W-Wait Grandfa-" Priscilla began when Gwyn cut her off.

"Tell me, Havel, how well does your boy fight?"

"Doesn't my opinion count in this situat-" she was cut off again by Havel.

"He's bested the Four Kings in combat before. I daresay, he might even best you in a fair fight."

"Huh?" the second heir of Ariamis paled as Gwyn's smiled grew further, displaying white teeth.

"Whilst that may seem tempting, I'd much rather pit him against the Commander of my Knights."

"Wait, what?" Argon said, wide-eyed.

Gwyn clapped Havel's shoulder in agreement. "An excellent idea! I think one isn't enough, however. How does a handicap sound to you?"

"Oh _my._" Lithecore chuckled as he, Artorias and Priscilla looked at a distraught Argon.

"Two heads are better than one." Havel approved before the two King's turned to Argon with wide grins on their faces.

"Then it's settled," the Lord of Sunlight said, "Argon of Ariamis will fight against my warriors; the Dragonslayer Ornstein and the Executioner Smough."

"EH?!"

"If he prevails, he may claim the Princess Priscilla's hand in marriage," Havel continued as Lithecore burst into a fit of laughter, slapping and irate Artorias on the back as he held his stomach in pain. He couldn't help it, his brother's luck just sucked so bad.

"Additionally," Gwyn commented, earning a curious look from the four in front of him and Havel. "Since there is a clash of virtues between both my subject and the Imperious King's, Artorias of the Abyss and Lithecore of Ariamis will _also_ duel for the right to claim the Lords Blade, Ciaran's hand in marriage."

Lithecore's smile dropped from his face as he stared at the Sun God before turning to a smirking Wolf Knight.

"Thank you, my Lord." Artorias bowed to Gwyn before looking at Lithecore. "I shall not fail you."

In reply, the heir merely scoffed before placing his hands in his pockets. "This will be _child's play_."

* * *

**Haha! You thought I abandoned this spin-off, didn't you? Well, look how I fooled all of you. Bahahahaha! Hahaha- Ouch!**

**\- _stop messing with our loyal readers (*puts away frying pan)_ **

**Yeah, yeah. Whatever.**

**Anyways, here is a lengthy update for you to enjoy. I'll edit it a bit later, right now my schedule is just massively packed. **

**As for this spin-off itself, the reason I upload it late is due to the fact that it's really, _really_ short. Like, it's almost over and we're already on chapter 6. **

**So, the 'engagement ceremony' I mentioned is like a sort of initiation from both Ariamis and Anor Londo. The initial purpose is to merge the cultures before the whole marriage takes place. Whilst Ariamis just has a simple reception, Anor Londo's approach is to test the mettle of the suitor, thus the battle against Ornstein and Smough. As for the beef between Lithecore and Artorias, I thought I'd throw that in for fun. After all, this love triangle is bloody fun to write.**

**Some of you might not like the whole transforming Seath thing, I get that. Since this is fanfiction, though, I thought I'd twist it a bit.**

**I left quite a bit of movie and other miscellaneous references in this one. I wonder how many of you will be able to identify them all?**

**Please leave a review, I'd love to hear what you thought of the chapter, flames, constructive criticism and all of the rest included.**

**Ja ne!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 7 – I Love You, So I'm Going To Die For You… Makes Absolutely No Sense When I Say It Out Loud **

* * *

**Heyo peep's! Did you guys know Ornstein is actually female In-Game? Crazy right? Now I feel like all those other guys that wrote this badass fic about the student of NK being male. Actually, now that you mention it, I want to write a one-shot about NK and Ornstein. Everything just makes so much more sense now.**

**Oh? Were you guys expecting me to say something funny in this a/n? Well, okay, you've twisted my arm. If you guys can guess the movie this quote comes from, you'll be having oodles of laughter. Ready? Here it comes:**

**" _Squirrel's to the goddamn nuts!_" **

**There. Have fun figuring that one out. Peace.**

* * *

"What were you thinking?"

"What were _you_ thinking?" Argon countered, pointing at his fiancé-to-be.

"Isn't this too early for marriage? I thought we agreed to take it slow?"

"Hey, it was your grandpa that send us a summons, not the other way around. What did you tell the guy anyways?"

"Nothing!" Priscilla exclaimed. The engagement ceremony had been performed and completed by both nations long ago. Afterward, her uncle had insisted Imperious King Havel and his company remain in the castle until the day the duel's for both respective brides commenced. Whilst the Imperious King had found the offer to his liking, grabbing her grandfather so that they could enjoy the night drinking in the other's company, the Ariamis brothers had chosen to speak to their fiancé's in private before retiring to bed.

"I just don't get how this all went South so quickly." Argon sighed as he rested his forearms on the railing of her balcony.

"Neither do I," she agreed, slumping forward on her bed. "How does Prince Lithecore do it?"

"Hmph," Argon smiled, "He's always been eerily calm."

"Lucky him." The crossbreed pouted. Even after Lady Ciaran had come to know of the spontaneous competition for her hand, the firstborn of Ariamis hadn't batted an eye, even when staring down Knight Artorias. When Argon had asked him if he were okay, he had simply shrugged and walked toward the Lords Blade, muttering something along the lines of 'there she is'.

Both the crossbreed and the second heir of Ariamis sighed in unison. In truth, the fact that he was to fight for the right to marry her excited them both. It was obvious that something between them had started to bloom after the Ariamis Ball, and it would be a lie to state that she didn't want him to go through with this duel for her sake. After all, what was more romantic than him portraying the knight in shining armour fantasy for her? Well actually, in her head, she imagined a nice evening on the town, her arms linked around his as they enjoyed their time together, but whatever. It wasn't like she got everything she wanted anyways. As a matter of fact, it was a blessing she was even able to choose _him_ to be her betrothed in the first place.

Argon possessed the same sentiments as he allowed the cool evening breeze to sweep across his face. This whole arrangement between his father and Lord Gwyn was a mess. As if an arranged marriage wasn't the shackle to his free feet, now he was forced to battle Anor Londo's Silver Knight Commander _and_ the terrifying Executioner known as Smough.

However, there were upsides to his situation, namely the fact that he was getting married to the crossbreed behind him, a dream come true if anyone would have asked. And secondly, it would mean that the tense relationship that Ariamis and Anor Londo previously possessed would be all but absolved. Honestly, it couldn't have been a better ending realistically speaking. The only issue was that to achieve half of this goal, he would have to win against two of Lord Gwyn's finest.

"We didn't really finish where we left off last time, did we?"

Priscilla lifted her gaze to Argon as he stared at her, his back against the railing. At the mention of their last time together, she blushed and looked at the carpeted floor.

"N-No… we didn't."

The undead admired the rose colouring her cheeks before stepping into her room and sitting on a chair positioned next to her bed. After he had transported her away from the castle that night, they had taken their time walking around the abandoned streets and town square silently piling up with snow. Her hand had been softly grasped in his as he had led her around, which had made both of them quite red. Such a setting was something out of a fairy tale, after all, how could they not feel a bit antsy? However, after they had begun to converse, and when they had both fallen into a casual waltz in front of the statue of Velka, they had grown bold enough to talk about their coincidental issues of an arranged marriage.

Whilst she had voiced her dislike at being thrown at the first noble or King available that Lordran approved of, he had humoured her with his tale of denying the six Daughters of Chaos and the miscellaneous princesses pining for his attention.

And before it was time for both of them to depart from one another, he had asked her a question. Not something difficult, but easy to understand. Easier to consider and the easiest to accept.

* * *

_"Y-You want to do w-what?" Priscilla asked the snow prince, her green eyes opened as wide as possible._

_Argon chuckled at her expression. It was shocking enough that he had asked it in the first place, considering the things he had already told his father, but somehow; when he looked into those adorable eyes of her's, it was as if his mind reassured him that this was the right choice._

_"You heard me. I said I want to marry you."_

_"B-But we just met," she breathed, a puff of air hitting his chin as they continued to sway along to some melody only they knew. "Not that I'm saying no!"_

_She hid her embarrassed face in his chest as he laughed at her response. She was just too cute for words, and that was just one more reason why he wanted to be with her. Besides the realisation that she had stolen his heart with a simple glance, he felt an impulse to no let this chance go. After all, once she left his arms who knew when he would get to see her again? And when he did, where was the guarantee that she would still be waiting for him? He didn't want to miss an opportunity like this when it was clear he would never receive another one any time soon._

_"We're both in the same position," he said as he twirled her around. Priscilla allowed herself to be led around the next bend as he gently pulled her back to him, his hands firmly holding her against him as she turned with him, her feet following his in this dance that never wanted to end – not that she would have stopped it for anything in the world._

_"And I realise this is too soon. Honestly, I would have wished that we met at least a few more times before asking you this important question."_

_"I understand your reasoning then." She replied, holding on to him tightly as he dipped her, pulled her back, twirled her, and finally allowed her to hug his neck as his large hands caressed her hips. "It would be better if I agreed to a suitor myself, instead of having one forced onto me."_

_"Go on." Argon urged. She smiled at the soft voice he used. It made her feel like the only woman in the world. Well, that and the fact that his eyes were staring at her so intently that she feared she might melt into a hot puddle._

_"I agree that this method is a better option. Either way, you and I will still be forced to marry soon."_

_"If my old man is as pushy as yours, there's no doubt."_

_She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. If only he knew who her family really was, he probably wouldn't have offered in the first place, especially considering who her parents were._

_Priscilla frowned before shaking her head. She couldn't think like that. She wouldn't allow her negativity to betray Argon's intentions. He seemed so much more different than anyone she had met. She didn't think he was one to back down when his mind was made up either. Just look at how ardent he was to take her hand in marriage, for example. No man or undead would come this far only to give up when he realised her lineage. She decided to trust herself and push forward._

_"And generally speaking, you are quite a fine suitor. Probably the best I've had so far."_

_Argon chuckled again, the vibrations brushing against her face pleasantly. "Continue praising me like that and I might fall for you completely," he lowered his mouth to her ear. "Unless I haven't done that already."_

_Priscilla shivered, her face bursting with red. Just who was this undead that made her say things so boldly? And was it bad that she actually enjoyed entertaining the mischief behind those burning amber eyes of his?_

_"So, what's your answer?" he asked._

_"That we should give it time." She replied. "I want… to discover more of you."_

_"You dissatisfied?" he quirked and she shook her head._

_"I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I'm more than satisfied…" she her face burned as she uttered her next choice of words. "I guess I just want to be greedy with you."_

_Argon smirked despite his blush. Just who was this woman that made his heart thump so damn hard? And when did he suddenly become so charming? Perhaps it was his old man's genes?_

_Either way, he beamed as he brought their dance to its end and placed his hand against her soft locks. "You can be as greedy as you want. I don't mind."_

_He heard her squeak in shock and he laughed again. She was just too much for his heart to handle, he swore._

_"So… you'd like to wait a bit?" he asked._

_"Y-Yes. If possible."_

_"What if your family doesn't give you the time the wait?"_

_Priscilla buried her head into his clothing again but was stopped when her placed his hand under her chin, lifting it up so that she could look at him. Her face never stopped its blush. "We-We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."_

_Argon trailed his fingers up her jaw as he stared at her, making gooseflesh appear. She still didn't seem certain to him, and that was what he didn't want. This was her future she was talking about, her life at stake. He wouldn't allow her to let herself down by giving up now._

_"Tell me the truth, Priscilla." She sighed into his hand as he cupped her cheek. "Would you accept a proposal if it were me?"_

_"Y-Y-Yes…" she stuttered out, unable to move from his piercing gaze._

_Her breath hitched as his face came closer to hers. She could almost feel his lips on hers as he whispered to her._

_"And from what you've witnessed thus far, what do you feel for me?"_

_She opened her mouth to speak but her voice was tight. It felt as though she couldn't breathe yet she possessed all the air she would ever need._

_"I… I-I…"_

_Her heartbeat quickened when he cupped her other cheek and rubbed gentle circles into her face with his thumbs. By the gods, did he really not know how she felt about him! Could he not see the way her tail refused to stop its wriggling? Or how she could barely talk in front of him? What about the way she was blushing? Was he blind to it all? Oh, why did he want her to **say** it when he already **knew** __it?!_

_"I…" Fine. She would do it. Not because she was anxious that she wouldn't get the chance later, but because she **wanted** to answer him. Even if she did want to take it slow, she wanted him to know her intentions. _

_"I lo-"_

_"Lady Priscilla!" a shout rang out, breaking the spell on the two of them._

_"Lady Priscilla! Where are you?!"_

_"Perhaps shouting like an angry father isn't the best approach?"_

_"How about you help out too, Gough?"_

_That sounded like Sir Ornstein's voice, Priscilla thought as she and Argon detached from one another. A silent agreement between the two of them before they parted ways._

* * *

Priscilla flushed red at the thought of that wonderful night. He had been as charming as she had really not expected, like really, he had wooed her quite well with his pleasant smell, his ghostly touch, an extremely warm body, and those dazzling orange eyes whilst she had been… well, her.

Argon, likewise, looked at the crossbreed in a similar manner. She had been beautiful, sweet, funny, chipper, enchanting and oh-so adorable, while he had been… well. Him. He knew, it was a completely miss-matched picture but oddly enough they fit together perfectly. How could he ever forget her arms draped around him as if he were the most important man in her life?

After the ceremony, which had consisted of a lot of traditional music, dancing, some food and an exchange of a fiery torch from his supposed father-in-law to him, she had gratefully climbed out of her lack of clothing, bathed until the paint decorating her body was no longer there, and slipped on a long, silver gown that wrapped around her body like a glove.

In Argon's eyes, as she was right now, sitting in front of him, hair still damp and tail still fuzzy, she looked gorgeous. Whilst he had been able to disrobe from his uniform into a baggy pair of trousers and a shirt that occasionally slid off his right shoulder, it was nothing compared to her; despite how much the maids of the castle swooned at the sight of him.

Priscilla noticed him staring and turned, her eyes locking with his own as they eventually flitted back to her body. Her face reddened. She would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous that he was here alone with her. Yet at the same time she would never admit that she enjoyed the way he took his time to take her in. Never in her life had she been analysed so intently, and honestly, she rather enjoyed it.

"A-Argon," the undead blinked and his eyes met hers again.

"Yes?"

"Y-You're staring…" she smiled nervously, redness touching the tips of his ears.

"I know." He smiled back and she looked away. Too embarrassed to reply.

This was how they had been spending their time together again, basking in the comfortable silence as the cool wind blew in through her balcony. Although it was funny for him to be in her room despite their situation, her grandfather had seen it right to avail them time together – which was odd for many reasons.

Nevertheless, the Ariamis Prince had taken the gift with a smile, walking into her room, and instantly deflating any tension she might have possessed at the announcement of his presence.

And that was but another thing she loved about him. He was bright and cheerful in everything he did, every action he made. He cut through thick atmospheres with a simple smile, a quality that motivated her to be better in turn. Truthfully, all she had ever wanted in a partner was one that could help her bloom just as effortlessly as the many flowers in the Timeless Garden. Argon provided her just that and many more wonderful things.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked and she turned to her right only to accidently smack her cheekbone against his nose. Hard. He made a shocked sound as her hands flew to her face.

"Argon?! Are you okay?"

"Phine. I'm Phine." He reassured her as he rubbed his nose.

"Why- how, when did you move closer?"

"A minute ago, whilst you were in a daze." He said with a nod. Priscilla couldn't help it as she blushed yet again before looking at him.

He smelt different as opposed to earlier today. It was the clothing he was wearing; they hid his natural scent from her nose. She didn't like it.

"U-Uhm, Pr-Priscilla?" Argon stuttered as the crossbreed undid the three buttons decorating his shirt. "Wh-What are you…"

"I can't smell you." She replied.

"Okay…" he answered as if he knew what she meant. "How about you sniff my arm or something? It's closer than my chest."

"Won't do." Was her final answer before the top of his shirt was opened and her head rested against him. He remained still as she inhaled deeply, sighing out in joy as her tail bounced against the mattress of her bed in glee. He smiled in amusement. She was an oddball, a real weirdo… but he liked that about her. If possible, all he wanted was to explore that more, but first…

Argon lifted her chin and stared at her smiling face; her eyes droopy as pale lashes opened to expose glittering emerald eyes. Damn, she looked utterly breath taking. And she smelt amazing. How in the name of Lloyd did he get so lucky?

"Enjoying yourself there?"

"Hm-hmm." She sighed and stared up at him. Gone was that adorable blush she was renowned for. What stared back at him was a sly grin and a steady gaze. He gulped to wet his dry throat. What was up with that sexy look all of a sudden? Was his scent like a drug for her or something?

"You still didn't answer my question." He said softly and she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" she reached up a hand to plant it against his chest. He froze as his quickened heartbeat pounded against her pale fingers. "I thought I already did."

"Nope." He breathed. He had to calm himself… and channel his inner-Argon. Yes, the dashing one; the one he was with her during the Ball. Where was that guy?

_'Probably somewhere far from here.'_ His mind contemplated.

He shook his head and looked back at her. He wasn't going to wimp out now. He needed to focus, be sensitive, more intuitive. Girls usually liked that, didn't they? But wait, Priscilla was no 'girl', she was _Priscilla_. Damn… why did he not take Richter's lesson on "Charming-ness 101" when he had the chance?

"What was your question again?"

Argon held back his gawk. She was toying with him. He couldn't believe it. It was hot, he had to admit, but it was still a shock to him. Either way, he wouldn't give in so easily. Right now, he needed to keep his heart in check, and allow his mind to take control. With a small breath, Argon closed his eyes before his face lit up with a wry smirk.

"Forgot already, have you?"

"I guess you'll just have to remind me." She cooed and placed a hand on his cheek. Her hand was cool and small against his face but he enjoyed the contact. She had never been as bold as this before. He wondered how long she could keep it up.

"Fine then, let's start." Argon said and placed his hand over hers. "First question: Do you wish to marry me?"

Priscilla's green eyes stared deeply into his own, he felt as if his soul were being pierced as the seductress smiled wider, her ivory fangs glinting at him in the light.

"Yes."

Good, there it was. Straight from the crossbreed's mouth. He could rest easy that she wasn't against this proposal at least. However, now came to hard part. A full-blown confession wasn't something he was searching for; he wasn't that naïve. In the time they spent together, he wanted to know how she felt about him. What she liked, what she disliked, what he could work on to be more appealing to her. He wasn't going to do a complete 180, because even that was asking too much. But if she wanted him to be better at being him, he wouldn't hesitate. Because at this point, whether he failed his trial in the next few days or not, one thing was going to be clear: he was completely in love with her.

"Second question…" Argon breathed and she smiled at him like the beauty she was. He couldn't help but gush at the sight of her, she was just so perfect in his eyes.

Filling up on courage, Argon used his other hand to comb a stray lock of hair over her ear. He heard her purr in delight from the action and chuckled. She sounded like Alvina when she was getting her large tummy rubbed. How cute.

"From what you've witnessed so far; what are your… feelings toward me?"

They stared at each other, eyes roaming from the other's eyes to their lips as they inched forward; getting closer but never really reaching the awaited point of contact.

When their forehead's touched, he heard her gasp quietly, a light dusting of rose covering the bridge of her nose. He wanted to close the distance between them so badly, but he wouldn't rush her. He would wait. Wait for days, weeks… even years if he had to. Just so long as she accepted _him_, that was all that mattered.

Eventually, she opened her mouth, just as their lips began to ghost over one another.

"I'll give you an answer when you win." She whispered before pulling back.

Argon grinned widely. Oh, she was sneaky.

"Now I can't possibly lose," Argon chuckled as his hand scratched the back of his head. "Especially with an answer like that on the line."

Priscilla giggled, her usual rosy hue coming back as she smiled at him.

"You'll have to make sure you choose the right friend to battle with you then. Sir's Ornstein and Smough are not feeble fighters."

At this, Argon blinked dumbly.

"What?" he said.

"What?" she replied.

Silence hung in the air as the two of them stared at one another in confusion.

"You're saying I can fight with a comrade when the day comes?" Argon asked in a jumpy tone. Priscilla merely nodded back.

"Of course. You _are_ going up against Grandfather Gwyn's best. You'll need the extra help."

"PRAISE THE SUN!" the undead exclaimed as he pulled Priscilla into a hug.

"A-Argon!" the crossbreed exploded into a blush as the undead laughed merrily with her in his arms. This changed everything. He wasn't going to die a painful death after all.

"Okay, gotta go hot stuff." Argon muttered as he let go of his fiancé-to-be and walked to the door.

"W-Wait, Argon, where are you going?" Priscilla asked in utter confusion. Where was he going to go at this hour?

"If I'm going to fight a two-on-two battle, Imma need me a Jolly Co-operator."

* * *

Discovering that it was not only his enamoured younger brother, but him as well that was forced to take part in Anor Londo's annoying traditions had been a shock to Lithecore, he wouldn't lie.

At first, he had just thought that the god of Sunlight had been joking, fooling around like the clown he was just to get a rise out of the Ariamis Prince. But after he and his father had locked arms around one another and stared back at himself and the Wolf Knight, he knew that it was no ruse.

Granted, any chance Lithecore was given to mess with the master swordsman was time well spent, he just didn't enjoy that fact that he would be shaming the Knight before his kith and kin out in the open a few days from now. Sure, he was one for the theatrics, but operating covertly was more his style. A flashy venue to flex one's skill and shame the other was a standard the firstborn of Ariamis didn't stoop to unless forced; and unfortunately, in this case he _was_.

In truth, he believed that a contest or duel should only be between the challenger and the challenged. For what need was there of the masses when only two people were to know the contents of the secretive nature of a test, a game of chance, a battle of wits, and so forth.

Honestly, now he just felt like he were a prized sheep being led into the town square to be slaughtered publicly. Whilst the comparison wasn't far off, it would most certainly not be him that would be shamed, but rather that badgering fool coated in a membrane of canine hair and musk.

"So, you agreed to a battle against Artorias."

Lithecore slid his gaze to the side as he remained with his back against pillar behind him. He didn't need to turn around simply because she was right next to him. And he needn't check who she was because he had already felt her approaching his position long before she had actually decided to announce herself – not that he would point out that she lacked the skill to creep up on him.

"Ah, _there_ you are." he sighed and his face formed into a smirk.

"You were actually looking for me?" Ciaran muttered as she crossed her arms under her chest and leaned against the opposite end of the pillar.

"I search for the _things_ that pique my _curiosity_." Lithecore replied with a yawn. With the climate being this warm, he actually felt the tug of slumber on his sunken eyelids. How strange.

"I _tried_ looking for the barracks, but that knightess in brass might have led me _astray_."

The Lords Blade snorted as she removed her mask, gold and black eyes glowing in the darkness that contrasted against waves of golden locks. "I wouldn't judge her. You don't exactly inspire trust in others when they first meet you."

"And _yet_ you consciously fell into my arms that night."

Lithecore heard her grunt. She was stubborn, but that was what made this even more fun.

"I was _forced_ into the duel, just so you know," Lithecore said, staring up at the stars. "Your boyfriend was over the _moon_ with excitement."

"He's not my boyfriend." Ciaran replied with a groan.

"Well _he_ seems to think so." The undead smirked. "Called you _his_ woman. You didn't mention you were already _taken_."

Ciaran grimaced. "It's not like that."

Silence filled the air as he waited for her to continue. When she had taken her fourth gulp of air, she did. "He just has strong feelings toward me is all."

"And what would you call that? _Love_? Or perhaps he's as _interested_ in you as a hound is with its _master_."

The woman chuckled beside him and he smiled wider. It was oddly fun talking to someone other than his servants and himself. With her it almost felt… natural. Uncomplicated. Something he admired.

"Enough with the teasing, he's still my teammate." The Lords Blade scolded before her playful lilt faded. With a clearer mind and firmer tone, she directed her next question to him like a soldier would their report. "What do you plan on doing if you win?"

Lithecore raised an intrigued brow. "You think I could _win_? How _kind_ of you to think so _highly_ of a mere undead."

"I'm no fool, Lithecore." She sounded serious this time. He should probably stop with the teasing for now.

"Honestly…" he began. He couldn't see it, but as he took a breath her hands curled into tight fists as he contemplated his answer. "I wouldn't do _anything_."

Ciaran let out a silent sigh, the tension leaving her. "And why is that?"

"Our little _game_ is more than enough to satisfy me." He said simply. "Bringing a _forced_ engagement into the equation would just _ruin_ the fun."

"I see."

He wasn't dense to her emotions. As much as she tried to hide them under that veil of indifference, his eyes were immune to such façades. He knew of her insecurity she attempted to hide from the world, including herself. He also saw the frustration she held deep inside herself at the lack of decisiveness she battled to overcome regarding himself and the Wolf Knight.

By this point, she was practically wearing it on her sleeve. He knew that she didn't understand the first thing about the emotions of attraction, desire, want – and should he call the others love and lust – slowly simmering just beneath the surface of her mind. She was raised as an assassin, the most fearsome ones to have ever been trained, aside from his private League, of course. Because she was the Kings personal guard, she hadn't had the chance to be taught about the complexities of love and emotional reciprocation. That was why she was on the fence regarding this duel between himself and Artorias.

In truth, he would like to say that he was conveniently in the same boat as her… however, with this foreign bubbling in his chest and lightness in his being whenever he thought or spoke about her, he was beginning to think that he wasn't as emotionally challenged as his peers would have assumed.

Then again, it wasn't like anyone was forcing her to accept this outcome. Gwyn had merely said that whoever won earned the right to claim her hand in marriage. He hadn't stipulated how long the winner could take before he made his move, or if she was forced to accept. She could literally just refuse them both before the match and it would be a done deal.

However, the only people who had thought about things like this was himself, his father… and most likely Gwyndolin. The god was a devil for the details.

Even so, if Lithecore _did_ win, and there was no reason he wouldn't, he wondered what kind of impact that would have on Anor Londo itself. After all, he was talking about besting the Shining City's pride and joy.

"How favoured _is_ Artorias with the ladies, I wonder?"

Ciaran turned her head to the side as she thought about that one. She had almost forgotten his reputation amongst the human women. And honestly, she didn't know whether to feel sick or impressed about it. Humanity was still deplorable in her mind, no matter how many centuries of peace had existed between them and the gods. And as much as people wanted to lump the undead into the same basket as humans, they were quite incorrect in where the near-immortal race truly resided on the proverbial food-chain. One of the greatest examples of this was the undead on the other side of her.

"After he bested Manus, he was proclaimed the hero of Lordran itself. there isn't a soul that doesn't look up to him nowadays. Although, that's quite an achievement for him, all things considered."

" _Oh?_" Lithecore murmured.

"If you were to win, then his loss would be devastating to the hordes of females throwing themselves at him." She said curtly.

Lithecore nodded in understanding. " _Interesting_."

He could understand that much. He was currently the hero of the world. After all, who would be able to stop Primeval Man without first suffering enormous loss. In fact, it was a shock he had made it back from Oolacile without his mind or a few limbs missing, or perhaps that furball he kept around him most of the time. Artorias' loss would ruin his reputation in terms of popularity, but he would also gain more favour due to the people believing in him as a symbol of might and valour. And that was all Lithecore really needed to know before he made his decision.

"Then it's settled," he sighed as he pushed off from the wall, slinked around the pillar and trapped a curious Ciaran between the pillar and himself. "I'm going to _win_."

The Lords Blade smirked. "Are you sure you have the skills to back that claim up?"

Lithecore smiled slyly as he pulled out the Gold Tracer he had swiped from her whilst they were conversing. "That… and much _more_."

Ciaran's smiled grew wider as she accepted the stolen weapon back. "Then do your best."

The undead didn't reply but pulled her body closer so that he could press his lips against hers in a quick, but memorable kiss.

Ciaran's eyes widened, and when she finally found her voice, he was already walking away, his hand waving back to her.

"Sleep well _Lords Blade_."

She didn't get the chance to reply before he rounded the next corner, disappearing from sight. Ciaran waited for a few more minutes before she raised her hand up to touch her mouth and smirked, a nearly transparent line of red on her cheeks.

Despite the venom he spat from his tongue, his lips were sweeter than honey. How nice to know.

* * *

Walking down the tall stairways of the castle, Ornstein sighed out as he swept away more dirt from the ornate tiles of the Great Hall. After the Engagement Ceremony had ended and the visitors of Ariamis had been placed in appropriate rooms; the nobility within the castle, and the Painting Guardians within the Silver Knight barracks, Lord Gwyn had seen it fit to dish out the overdue punishment toward both him and Gough.

Thinking more clearly than a few hours ago, drunk off his ass, the Commander of the Silver Knights could understand why they were receiving such a task of back-breaking labour whilst Ciaran and Artorias were left to themselves. After all, it _had_ been all their fault that the Wolf Knight had lost his cool, started a fight with Ariamis' firstborn, and the fact that all four of them had failed to watch the princess.

That being said, it was still massively unfair in his opinion. Despite his size as a demi-god, blessed with a superior soul, he was nothing when compared to his giant comrade, who with a simple sway of his muscled arms could wipe entire sections of the Great Hall clean. Seriously, it was plain torture for his pained body after he had been forced to train with Lord Gwyn in the morning so that his Lord could 'brush up his skills'. Why did he even _need_ to brush up on anything? His Lord was only nearing a millennium in age, and he could still drop kick a person's head into the Lower Burg if he stood on the moving stairwell. Honestly, the knight assumed the reason had been to further punish him for his negligence.

"Continue sweeping, Ornstein." Gwyndolin warned, smacking the redhead with his sceptre.

"Ow! Lord Gwyndolin, why must you hit so har-"

_SMACK!_

"Yeeouch! Okay, okay, I'm moving!" he shouted quickly as his aching muscles forced him to continue to brush away the dust and dirt that many feet had trod into the castle today. It was extremely strenuous, even with a behemoth broom in his hand. And to make matter's worse, his King had seen it fit to task his lastborn with the duty of ensuring he and Gough did not shirk in their punishment.

However, with how Ornstein's spine felt like leaping out of his back before shattering into a million pieces, he didn't think it was possible to shirk off, not when the Dark Sun himself was monitoring their progress like a hawk, or was it more like a crow? Those black feathered bastards were always eyeing people when Lady Velka was out. Come to think of it, was _that_ how she kept track of all those that sinned? What a brilliant way to maintain orde-

_SMACK!_

"You missed a spot." Gwyndolin said, obviously peeved. Out of all the things he could have been doing tonight, his father had forced him to babysit grown beings so that he could get drunk with Imperious King Havel. And to make matters more inconvenient, Gwynevere was still busy with Seath, who had not reverted to his original form for some reason. Really, the only thing he prayed for was that she didn't return with ruffled hair and a guilty yet satisfied look on her face that could only lead to one conclusion. After she had done that the _last_ time and birthed Priscilla nine months later, he had taken an oath to never allow the two of them to be left alone in one room, especially if his sister was drunk.

However, it seemed he would have to break that oath in favour of taking care of two idiots that couldn't even do their jobs properly.

"Lord Gwyndolin, I've been cleaning the same spot for nearly one hour now. Perhaps if you allow me to finish the _rest_ of the Great Hall, we can finish this before the sun rises?" Ornstein whined as he rolled his sore shoulders. The Lord of the Darkmoon merely gave him a blank stare behind his visor before dishing out another strike with his sceptre that connected solidly with the Knight's cheek.

_SMACK!_

"You will clean up that spot until you can see your face in it. Am I understood?"

"But my Lord, I can barely manage to bend over."

"Is that so?" Gwyndolin observed the Silver Knight Commander with a critical eye. He was correct in what he said. After his bout of 'training' with his father, the servant of Anor Londo was really worse for wear. He could barely straighten his back and yet here he was about to polish the white tiles with a wet rag. Thinking mercifully, the god tilted his head towards Ornstein.

"Allow me to help you then."

_SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!_

"Complaints will get you nowhere with me."

"Ahh! By Gwyn-"

"Do not use my father's name in vain."

_SMACK!_

"I-I'm sorry! Please stop hitting m- Oof! Not the stomach, that hurts the most right now!"

Ornstein cried out in pain as he was continuously swatted around by Gwyndolin, forced into the correct position on his knees before he was made to scrub the floor as furiously as he possibly could, else he receive another strike to his knuckles and a snake bite to his bare chest. Seriously, Lord Gwyndolin was a slave driver when it came down to punishment! He would never disobey an order again if it meant he didn't have to clean the castle at dusk. Like seriously, now he _really_ appreciated the castle's maids and servants, it was pure **_agony_ **to make this place spotless on a daily basis. Perhaps it was worse in his case since he was being tortured by a feminine male?

_SLAP!_

"OW! OKAY, WHAT WAS _THAT_ FOR?!" Ornstein exclaimed as he snapped his head to a serene looking Gwyndolin.

"You said that out loud." Gough's booming voice cut in as he popped his head up from the staircase, hawk-like eyes glittering with amusement.

"Oh… forgive me, my Lord."

"What for, Ornstein?" Gwyndolin asked, tapping the tip of his sceptre against his palm patiently.

The redhead opened his mouth to speak before closing it and returning to his work. It was best not to stir the hornets' nest when possible. Gwyndolin, in turn, merely smiled wryly at the reply before staring through one of the large windows at the moon.

"So, the time has finally come for my dear Priscilla, hasn't it?"

Tonight was a sombre one, despite the celebration going about. It was the day his beloved niece was engaged to the supposed 'man of her dreams'. Whilst Argon still needed to prove his salt as a worthy suitor, Gwyndolin sensed no disloyalty or ulterior motives within him. In fact, he would go as far to say that the heir of Ariamis seemed somewhat excited to be battling for Priscilla's hand. Whilst his face almost always seemed confused and he acted foolishly, his skills in evading death by Artorias' blade and the confidence he carried as an undead was not something to scoff at.

Behind the stupidity those eyes of his betrayed, they also burned with passion whenever he looked at his niece. Though Gwyndolin may have been one of the most sexually frustrating beings to look at – people of the current generation going as far as to called him a 'trap' – he _did_ know a thing or two about love. Why, the time he had courted the goddess Fina only to break off their engagement when he realised she was a sadistic woman that corrupted the minds of humans that worshipped her, was a prime example. He didn't like to admit it but he had spent the next decade within his chamber sulking. It was only after his beloved niece had shone light into his life that he had been revived from such a slump.

"It was to be expected, I suppose." Ornstein muttered as he crawled toward a corner and started cleaning the grooves. "word of her reaching an acceptable age had already circulated around the world thrice over before the requests began to pile up. It was a wonder that Lord Gwyn had managed to fend so many nations off until now."

Gwyndolin cupped his chin in thought. The Silver Knight Commander was correct. When his father had begun to receive marriage requests from the many nations gunning for a piece of Anor Londo's fortune his rage had been unforgiving, and his stress like the cracked walls of a dam. It was honestly only due to his utter refusal that Priscilla had remained single until Seath had formally requested that she and Knight-King Ricard engage for the sake of whatever scheme he was currently concocting.

"It's still hard to believe." Gough quipped, rising to the floor Gwyndolin and Ornstein currently stood on to dust the pillars. "To think that it was only yesterday we had a bundle of fur running about the castle."

"I still remember the way you used to tell her stories whilst patting her to sleep on your lap." Ornstein chuckled before he turned wrong and a fresh stab of pain wracked his side.

At the mention of those peaceful moments, Gwyndolin allowed a smile to grace his features. Priscilla had been a bright light to everyone's lives when she was growing up. Despite how much Seath had scarred and hurt her, and no matter how the sight of an uncaring Gwynevere stung her poor heart, she had still continued to smile. He recalled the days when he was in his slump. He hadn't known how she had bypassed his wards and illusions leading to his chamber and he still hadn't bothered to ask. All he thought of was the small, chubby crossbreed clothed in an ivory dress that had waddled up to him like a curious penguin and sucked out his depression like a sponge as she badgered him with questions, silly conversation and innocent laugher. How grateful he had been that day that he had found another reason to keep living to his fullest. He probably wouldn't have resolved the frayed bonds between himself and his father if she hadn't come into his life. And for that, amongst many other wondrous things, he was glad for.

"That reminds me," Gough's deep voice rattled the Darkmoon Lord back to reality. He turned his visor toward said giant who was currently fixing his gaze on a cussing Ornstein. "Aren't you meant to battle the second born of Imperious King Havel?"

"Y- _HO- _Yeah," Ornstein replied as he rose on shaky knees. "What of it?"

"Shouldn't you be resting in preparation for the fight instead of cleaning?"

The Commander of the Silver Knights stopped his moaning to stare deadpan at a placid Gwyndolin.

"What an excellent question, Gough. Why _aren't_ I resting up like Artorias and Smough?" he repeated in an accusing tone.

_SMACK!_

"OW!"

"Do not forget your place, Ornstein."

The knight rubbed his cheek tenderly. "Right. Forgive me, my Lord."

Gough chuckled to himself as his comrade threw him a glare. He would see who was laughing when he sold the giant's stash of archtree carvings he was so fond of imbuing his voice into.

"Are you prepared for the duel against Argon?" Gwyndolin asked the knight. "From what the Knight's guarding Priscilla's room reported, he plans on receiving aid from an Astorian."

Ornstein rolled his shoulders before peering out at the night sky. "It's not a problem if he has company. Evening the odds is something I would do if I were in his shoes."

"Remember not to go easy on him," Gough chipped in. "But do be careful not to be too thorough. Too much force in a swing and you might kill the heir of Ariamis."

"I don't really think that would be an issue either. He's undead, he'll just revive."

Gwyndolin tilted his head to the side. "What makes you so sure he won't go hollow in the process?"

"His will must be strong if he's agreed to face myself and Smough. His brother too. They won't fall into disarray if they lose, I can guarantee that."

The other two thought Ornstein's words over before giving it a nod. It was no secret that undead never truly hollowed after their first death. Black Iron Tarkus had been living proof of that ever since he had journeyed from his homeland to Anor Londo just to best one of the Elite Four in a duel. If the Dark Sun and Gough remembered correctly, the armoured undead had died a total of seven times before he had finally outmanoeuvred Ciaran in close combat – and great feat after she had kicked him off the tall rafters within the Painting Hall _and_ dropped a massive chandelier on his head.

"Your thoughts on the prince?" Gwyndolin asked, finally relieving both Knights of their punishment.

"He'll put up a good fight. His attitude may seem lacking but he's more than capable. He _is_ Archbishop Havel's son, after all."

"Do you think he can best both you and Smough?" Gough thought outwardly, dusting his hands.

The Silver Knight Commander merely shrugged before leaning on his companion as he, Gough and Gwyndolin headed toward the exit.

"If he does then he's more than worthy. If he doesn't then I guess his departure will be morose."

"I wouldn't count on him losing just yet." Gough hummed in thought, jostling Ornstein in his grip as they walked.

"Why is that?" Gwyndolin cut in, swivelling his head their way as they crossed into the next corridor.

"From the talk amongst the Ariamis soldiers and more than a few locals, the praises sung about Argon and Lithecore of the North are quite legendary."

"How legendary are we talking?" Ornstein murmured.

"Legendary enough that they've been classified as the 'Chosen Undead'."

"Chosen, eh?" the redhead repeated as a thoughtful expression replaced his curious frown. "Now that's interesting."

* * *

**(A few days later – the day of the Trial)**

Crowds. In the halls of Ariamis, there had been crowds. With Argon in the citadel of Anor Londo, there had been crowds. And now, within the Great Hall of Gwyn's castle, as Lithecore stood next to his twin who was hopping from one foot to another like the was constipated, there was, yet again… _crowds._

He had to ask himself: could things honestly get any worse than _this_?

The answer arrived along with a ten-foot-tall shadow as Artorias swaggered into his personal space, armour clicking together like a cluster of tin cans. The heir was impressed, even if his scowl said otherwise as he stared up the hooded Wolf Knight. Although the man, or Lord or whatever his race was called, weighed more than three people due to his immense size, he made the amour he wore seem like to weighed nothing but air, especially with those massive armaments sheathed on his back.

Compared to the traditional alabaster garb Lithecore wore to represent his own country, he admitted that he felt underdressed. The chainmail underneath his form-fitting shirt wouldn't bear the brunt of an attack Artorias threw his way, he knew. However, he considered his flexibility and natural nimbleness an apt compensation for his lack of protective gear.

Besides, the Wolf Knight wasn't facing any old undead with a sword. He was facing the _heir_ of Ariamis, the son of the Imperious King Havel, one of two undead to ever be granted the title of 'Chosen'. And if that wasn't enough to rile up the tree-hugger, Lithecore _also_ happened to be the man whom Ciaran had a sweet spot for. A _really_ sweet spot, if he were being honest.

"Prepare to die, Lithecore." Artorias said flatly. The undead merely sighed out in disappointment. That line was better suited for the cover of some suicidal role-playing game. And the fact that the famous Abysswalker would resort to petty threats before their battle was even more saddening to experience. If only his adoring fans could see what a child he was.

"I won't hold back until you're a putty in my hands."

"That's what _she_ said." Lithecore replied, poking a finger into his ear.

"I'll be coming with everything I possess."

"Surprisingly, that's what _I_ said in reply to her. Do you read _minds_ or where you just _present_ during our midnight romping?"

He heard Artorias utter a dangerous growl. Lithecore's grin split his cheeks as the Wolf Knight began pestering him with questions about whether this 'she' he was talking about was Ciaran. It was just so appealing to irritate an irritation.

"Ahem." Richter's voice broke the two of them from their quarrelling as Gwyndolin fell into step beside the Painting Guardian Commander.

"If the two of you are ready, we can finally begin."

"Time is of the essence." The Dark Sun God said, pointing his gaze at Lithecore who merely raised his arms up in defence.

"Friendly words before an _unfriendly_ clash is commonplace these days. Best not to _break_ the tradition, right Artorias?"

The knight scoffed as he bowed to the Darkmoon Lord.

"Are we to proceed here, my Lord Gwyndolin?" he asked, referring to the Great Hall currently flogged with cheering people and Silver Knights that formed a neat barricade parallel to the wings of the vast room.

"No," Gwyndolin stated before drawing his sceptre. "The duel the two of your will engage in takes place far from here."

"How _far_ do you mean?" Lithecore questioned. Gwyndolin began to weave a teleportation circle around the three of them when he replied.

"Mirkwood."

The Ariamis heir paled at the answer before his brow creased and his body went tense. Artorias hummed in thought. Why did that name ring a bell to him? And furthermore, why was his love rival having such an off reaction toward it? He didn't get the chance to ask when his Lord began to speak again.

"To be more specific: Oolacile."

This time, it was the Wolf Knight that stiffened like a prettified tree before he had to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the spell circle. He blinked and when he looked up, he realised that they were no longer in Anor Londo anymore.

The sandy surface he stood on was smooth and firm against his feet, whilst the calm breeze that drifted around himself, the Ariamis Prince and Lord Gwyndolin felt pleasant and homely. However, that calmness eventually lost its gentle touch when the rambunctious sound of over a million voices caught his attention.

Artorias looked up for the second time to see the masses of Oolacile sitting and standing on the tiers of their grand coliseum as they cheered, screamed, and exclaimed their excitement towards himself and Lithecore.

The Abysswalker breathed out a sigh as he adjusted his gauntlets. Out of all the places they would conduct their battle, why did it need to be within one of the places he did his best not to visit frequently?

It wasn't that he disliked Oolacile after he had defeated Manus and brought peace upon the land. It was just that after he had become famous amongst the population – and especially the women – visiting the land of rich grass and wondrous magic had just taken a back seat considering how much more stressed he would feel when attempting to find relaxation here.

"Lord Gwyndolin." A soft but firm voice broke him from his thoughts, and the Knight turned round to see a flustered Ciaran dressed head-to-toe in the very same traditional outfit Lady Priscilla had been forced to wear. The only difference was that whilst the Princess had been further beatified by the Painting Guardians of Ariamis, Ciaran was bedazzled with a fresh assortment of gorgeous flowers and shawls, curtesy of Oolacile.

Keeping to the woman's natural colour choice, they had fashioned the various transparent shawls a sea blue whilst her braided golden hair possessed a flock of delphiniums. Her golden eyes glittered beautifully within its obsidian casing and on her lips was a red so bold, he had to swallow to wet his dry throat.

"Ah, Ciaran, you look wonderful." The Darkmoon Lord offered a small smile before bowing his head to her in greeting.

The Lords' Blade merely drew her bare arms around herself in reply. Out of everything she was forced to wear, why would Lord Gwyn convince her to dress according to tradition when she wasn't even royalty? Furthermore, why couldn't she keep her stupid face from turning red whenever someone whistled at her in appreciation or the various people she spoke to within the castle complimented her? It was all just too much for her. This was just supposed to be a duel, dammit. What was the need to dress her up like the prize the victor would win – even though that was technically what she was when you got down to it.

"Why did it _have_ to be Oolacile?" Lithecore's muttering broke her from her thoughts and she looked at him to see his face in a deep scowl, his burning eyes looking around wildly in anticipation for something.

She took a moment to take him in. He was dressed in the standard uniform of Ariamis' soldiers: alabaster shirt with chainmail underneath, a set of lightly armoured leggings and overly long sleeves that stood out like arrow heads. He didn't seem to have any weaponry on him, as opposed to the usual full platemail of Artorias, and she wondered whether he planned on fighting her teammate bare handed. It would certainly be quite an admirable sight to see the undead want to face a master greatsword wielder, however, knowing the calculating heir, he probably had something up his sleeve. Otherwise he wouldn't have arrived wearing garments the Wolf Knight's sword could tear through like paper.

"You seem quite well despite the current circumstance." She said and he turned to her, orange eyes ablaze with recognition.

"And you look _ravishing_." Ciaran did her best to force the annoying redness on her face from creep up to her ears. "I'm guessing they _forced_ you to wear that?"

"You don't like it?" she teased him before attempting to be seductive by placing one hand on the curve of her hip and the other against the back of her head, displaying her taut stomach and modest chest.

Whilst Artorias gasped before using the cobalt material of his hood to wipe the blood from his nose, Lithecore replied with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile.

" _Honestly_, I think you'd look better with those clothes _off_."

Her voice caught in her throat as his smile grew wider, and he turned her head to avoid her face heating up more. He was witty, she would give him that.

"If only we weren't _here_, however…" the undead sighed before combing a hand threw his hair.

"You do not think a venue like this acceptable for a grand occasion such as this?" Gwyndolin asked in a stern tone. Heir of Ariamis or not, he would not tolerate a bratty personality when he was the challenger. Additionally, why was Uncle Havel's firstborn so high-strung? Was Oolacile not one of the snowy kingdoms most trusted allies next to Lordran now that matters had been settled?

"It's not that I don't _like_ it," the undead said, his body twisting around frantically. "It's who _governs_ this Kingdom that troubles me."

"Why would the newly appoint Queen of Oolacile be a matter of worry for the likes of you?" the god asked in confusion before he saw the undead point in annoyance at Artorias.

"Oh, just ask _him_ if you want to know."

The Lord of the Darkmoon swivelled his head to the side to see an energetic Dusk glomping the Wolf Knight's waist in a tight hug, stars in her eyes as she squealed in joy. Gwyndolin raised a pale eyebrow. He knew she was an adoring admirer of Artorias but this was just… new.

"Oh, my brave Knight, how long I have awaited your return after smiting away the darkness that blessed day. My people, my Kingdom, and my heart sorely grieved when you did not return for the feast we held in your honour. I did know of your duty to Lord Gwyn, but could you not have spared but a day, a few moments so that I could thank you in person, my beloved Artorias?"

"A-Ah," Artorias stuttered out. He honestly should have seen this coming, but the fact that it was happening was even more distressing. He hadn't wanted to leave her like this after he had slain Manus, he had truly planned to return one day. However, with how entranced she had become with him after he had saved her life… and after Elizabeth had attempted to persuade him to 'claim his reward' from the Princess after the Kingdom had been rebuilt, he just felt it best to allow her to cool off. Unfortunately, he hadn't considered how much more her fanatical adoration for him would grow after so much time spent away; and to make matters worse she was acting lovey-dovey whilst Ciaran was standing _right_ in front of him. Didn't she know the reason they were all gathered here in the first place? She had to, surely. After all, this _was_ her Kingdom now.

"It's great to see you again, Lady Dusk."

"Mm, why did you still stand on ceremony with me, my love?" Dusk pouted as she disengaged from his waist – an action he was grateful for.

"Well… because you are the Queen of this fine country."

"One that still stands without her King." He countered and he paled. Did she plan on doing this _now_? When he was about to fight for the right to belong to the women his heart beat for?

"Y-Yes. But with your obvious charm, I'm sure you will find the right one."

"What if I already have?" she quirked, looking at him with her hands clasped and her eyes wide with affection.

"Then I suppose all you will have to do is tell him how you feel."

"I just did." She said.

Artorias coughed. This was getting increasingly awkward for him. He had to do something quickly before both his freedom and chastity was taken from him. Luckily, he didn't have to do anything when Dusk turned her head to the side only to brighten up like the sun before dashing straight toward Lithecore.

"MY DARLING LITHECORE!"

the Wolf Knight, Ciaran, and Gwyndolin watched in rapt attention as the Princess – now Queen – dived toward the Ariamis heir before her slender arms crushed him into a hug so tight, the three of them heard something crack within the undeads body.

Lithecore let out a raspy cuss as he felt his ribs face a fracture, before staring down at a gushing Dusk, her face buried against his uniform.

"I had lost the warmth of the sun when you departed from my gentle grasp all that time ago. The food I ate had lost its flavour and no amount of water I drank gave me sustenance as I waited for you to return, your penetrating gaze striking my very being over and over again."

She snuggled deeper into his body and he let out a loud groan as the other three beings near him eyed him and the Queen of Oolacile curiously.

"To think that you had so bravely rushed to my country's aide when devastation had befallen us, only to calmly walk into Death's embrace and return riding upon the back of the Black Dragon Kalameet."

At this, all three of his inquisitive eavesdroppers promptly gawked at him with wide eyes, excluding Gwyndolin since half his face was covered.

This was just perfect. He had done _so_ much to avoid ever visiting the _one_ woman he could never punch in the face for breaching his personal space since it would most certainly spark a war, and now here he was having his breakfast squeezed out of him. What was even worse was the fact that now her idiotic mouth had spilled the beans as to what had happened to the Ancient batwing Dragon that terrorised Anor Londo in the days of old. He and his father, along with Dusk, had agreed to keep capturing and taming him a secret whilst planting the lie that he had been felled by some unknown being who wielded a sword spear. It was just like the besotted idiot to run her annoyingly dumb mouth when she was giddy. He swore her father must be turning in his grave at this right about now.

In all honesty, he shouldn't be complaining really. Kalameet had taken some time to deal with, but Midir had certainly been the more troublesome of the two. But that was a story for another time. He just hoped her outburst wouldn't cause more hassles for him now that three inhabitants of Anor Londo were standing _right_ in front of him.

And as if life couldn't be anymore cruel, the questions started to come as fast as sorcery spells.

"You did what?!"

"Where are you keeping that obsidian monstrosity?!"

"How did you manage to tame _him_ of all dragons?"

Lithecore sighed out in frustration as the crowd in the coliseum began to cheer louder, the Anor Londo inhabitants started to badger him with more questions, and Dusk began to trail her troublemaking lips towards his ear.

_" **Screw** whichever idiot is making me go through all this **hell**." _

He just wanted to get this duel over and done with. Was that too much to ask?

* * *

"Are you certain you're prepared?"

"Yes Solaire, I am."

"Even when dressed in that ridiculously yellow attire?"

"It was given to me by the Xanthous King, Jeremiah, one of my Ancestors trusted allies."

"I admit, that _is_ quite noble of you but… are you _certain_ about this?"

"For the last time, I am completely ready for this battle, Solaire."

"Then at least take off that crown for my sake. It's atrocious."

"Dammit, alright!" Argon said exasperated. The Premier of Astora had been goading him into wearing some other form of armour for the past hour before his battle with two of Lord Gwyn's finest would begin.

Although he had seen Priscilla first and asked for well wishes that day. And although she had also held her reservations toward his choice in armour, he had still waited with Richter outside of the Throne Room to begin the battle for the love of his life. The reason? It was simple really: if he was going to battle against the Commander of the Silver Knights and Anor Londo's resident Executioner, then he was going to do it in the most flamboyant way possible. It wasn't because he was attempting to appear cocky, it was just to prove that no matter how absurd, he would still come out on top.

His father had even agreed with his sentiments, giving him a proud slap on the back before Solaire had met him within the crowded Great Hall of the castle.

Despite what people thought, the garb he was wearing was quite unique, possessing adequate protection and a decent amount of lightness for mobility. What's more, Havel had even made the heir wear his prized ring, a possession he usually never took off his person.

Argon smiled as he felt the magical power coursing through his veins from his father's ring. It was a powerful trinket, one that granted him more manoeuvrability, even as he slung his Demon Hammer over his shoulder. And if that wasn't enough, he had his Sun-Bro with him.

Solaire, the Premier of Astora. The Warrior of the Sun and follower of the legacy the Nameless King left behind in Lordran. As a man, he was jovial, always looking towards the brighter side of things. As an undead, he was a fearless leader and a wall of strength no force could hope to destroy, especially when his will was as hot as the very sun in the sky. And, of course, his battle prowess was unmatched by few, including the gods themselves.

He was a jolly friend, and an even jollier companion on the battlefield. Having him here to aide him in this battle would surely help him overcome the obstacles he was about to face should they be too much for him. And besides that, the Sun Knight had said yes to his request as soon as Argon had mentioned that he would be facing off against the Nameless King's only apprentice, Dragonslayer Ornstein.

Honestly, he was in a good position. His best friend was at his side, Ariamis and Anor Londo were now allied, and he was about to fight for the glory of marrying the crossbreed he was smitten for. Quite frankly, the only hurdles he would have to go through from here on out was win this seemingly impossible battle and not die, marry the women he loved, ensure his in-laws didn't try to kill or experiment on his undead body – he was pointing his finger directly at his future father-in-law – and most probably have a happy ever after.

There was the chance that his grandfather-in-law, Lord Gwyn – that was a scary and exciting thought – could possibly ask him to do something utter stupid like make him offer his soul to the First Flame in order to continue the 'line of Cinder' since his firstborn was disowned, but he could deal with that when the time came. Right now, he was just focussing on winning this battle.

As the undead took a deep breath, he caught the sound of thudding footsteps as he, Solaire and the crowd behind them suddenly came to a hush.

The thudding grew louder, yet it sounded slow. Deliberate. Slowly, both undead turned their gazes behind them only for Argon to tense up as he caught the sight of two pairs of golden armour coming his way.

If he had said that Smough was a beast, it would have been a literal understatement as the giant hybrid took large, stomping steps through the Great Hall. His armour was depicted as an obese man, but anyone who knew the name of the Executioner knew that he was not the overweight behemoth the stories made him out to be. Underneath all that shining armour stood a tall, muscled giant.

Argon's gaze found the beings hammer before he audibly gulped. That weapon was twice the size of his Demon Hammer, and it was plated in Lordrian gold. As he stomped passed him and Solaire, Argon found his shocked expression staring back at him from the reflection on the giant's armour.

The image reflected back was one that was utterly flabbergasted, carrying a petrified tree and weapon some atrocious bright yellow garb that showed his toned abs. A thought crossed his mind as Smough stomped into the Throne Room, ignoring the two undead to his left entirely. Perhaps he _did_ need better equipment after witnessing the size of the foe he was about to face?

He didn't get the chance to answer that thought as the lean and armoured figure of Ornstein came into view, standing a full head taller than he, and brandishing a wicked spear that looked as if its spearhead was crafted from the very sun itself.

The blade sparked with currents of never-ending lighting, the shaft was a marvellous gold and the growling visage of his lion helm made his hair stand on end.

The Silver Knight Commander stopped at the foot of the stairway connecting the Great Hall to the Throne Room where Lord Gwyn patiently sat with his daughter and grandchild, before he turned to face Argon and Solaire.

Argon's heart pounded in his chest yet he forced a brave face on as he stared back and smiled kindly before bowing in greeting. Was he terrified of facing such intimidating opponents all of a sudden? Yes, he was. Who _wouldn't_ be miffed in his situation? But was he going to become a wuss and chicken out? Hell no! This wasn't just his battle he was fighting for; it was Priscilla's too. A fight to decide not only his fate, but her's as well.

He had promised her a life far better than any other suitor could provide and he would make good on his promise. There was no way he would back out now, especially when she hadn't given him an answer yet.

As if the Lion Knight sensed his conviction, he watched as Ornstein offered a curt bow before turning and ascending the stairs to reach his companions side.

Argon waited for the Knight to be out of earshot before he released a heavy sigh. No matter how fired up he was, he had to admit that both beings possessed a damn strong aura about them. He knew that he did too, but he was more passive when it came down to it. There hadn't really been many moments when he had been forced to get serious, after all.

"My, my… what a splendid occasion." Solaire said suddenly before slapping Argon on the back playfully.

"I am most pleased that you invited me to accompany you to this duel for your beloved damsel, hah hah!"

Argon offered the man a genuine smile. Count on Solaire to ease his tension by just being… well, him.

"I look forward to this battle. Let us shine brightly as we partake in Jolly Co-operation!" the Sun Knight said happily before climbing the stairs to reach their opponents.

Argon sighed out again as he prepared himself. This was it. He had to give it his all now that the time had finally come to 'prove his salt' to the Great Lord before him.

So, with an easy smile, Argon reached into himself as he disrobed the Xanthous shirt from his chest, his Demon Hammer placed safely into his bottomless box. A few of the handmaidens stationed behind him flushed red when he revealed his bare chest to them before fainting but he didn't pay them any attention.

He closed his eyes and focused. In a flash of light, his yellow loincloth was replaced with thick leather leggings, and matching boots. Upon his bare shoulders formed a black trench coat with a stiff collar that masked the tight-fitting waist coat decorated with an assortment of throwing knives on each side on his hips.

Argon grinned as he brought a gloved hand up to put on a plain porcelain mask. It was about time he brought his A-game. And now that he thought about it more clearly, it had been a while since he had really allowed himself to let loose.

Another grin lifted his masked face as he took long, confident steps up the stairway and toward the three beings sitting on their thrones, awaiting his arrival.

Gwyn raised an eyebrow as he appraised Argon's attire. Gwynevere clapped her hands in joy as she looked at her future son-in-law. And Priscilla smiled at him brightly as his eyes glowed a deep amber from behind the slits in his mask, focussed on one thing and one thing alone: his and Solaire's victory.

* * *

**Alrighto, I've decided to post this chapter sooner than I would have hoped since I'm not done with the next chapter of the pilot story yet. Hey, don't look at me like that, it takes time to create quality material so that you can happily devour my words with your eyes.**

**If you guys were wondering, Argon's wearing the mask he usually wears in Kingdom Come. If you haven't read Kingdom Come and don't know what the Izalith his mask looks like, I'll explain. **

**It's simple really. A plain porcelain mask with the eyeholes resembling the following symbol: "~".**

**So, this was just the build up for the battles themselves. I didn't want to rush it since this spin-off will, unfortunately, be coming to an end when it reaches chapter 12 or so. Don't despair though, I still have a one-shot written out involving Priscilla and the Chosen Undead (not Argon) on my list of fics. You can read that one if you're feeling like you want more.**

**As always, please leave a review. Like, seriously, _please_. Writer's like me feed off of the thoughts and opinions of the loyal readers that come across our stuff. So please review and share some happiness. Authors are people too, ya' know! (*sniffles) **

**Oh, yeah. Shoutout to JoeCola00 (at least… I think I'm shouting out). I do hope that one beautiful day, some wonderful person does do "fanart" of Priscilla in Gwynevere's apparel. I think it would look pretty rad. As for the desert Pyromancer… (*flushes red).**

**God bless you all and have a great day!**

**Ja ne.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Cinderella Wore Glass Shoes, So Priscilla Had A Tail And Scales **

**Chapter 8 – I've Jumped Off Cliff's For No Reason Before, But Not In Front Of A Ten-Foot Pole, That's Just Suicide **

* * *

**Fufufu… you've done well to enter this domain of mine, Loyal Reader. Now, all you have to do is offer me your soul and you shall possess a single waifu in your bed tonight. Now, doesn't that sound a fair trade? Hahahaha-**

**\- _I want to wake up next to Ai from Kaguya-sama!_ **

**Eh. (*stares at Illogical self) you… _do_ know that I'm joking… right? **

**\- _what? You tricked me?_ **

**I'm honestly surprised you believed that blatant lie.**

**\- _how could you do that? I thought you were being serious…_ **

**Even if I were, you wouldn't be able to pay me with your soul since you ARE me.**

**\- _I know, ain't life sweet? (*grins)_ **

**Argh! Just sit there quietly, would you? On with ze story!**

* * *

Things had always seemed to go wrong for the eldest of the two Ariamis heir's, be it menial moments or exceptional events. One of the grouchy prince's biggest peeves, however, was the fact that Occam's Razor and Murphy's Law – whoever those two crackpots were who invented such agonising forms of torture – seemed to almost (always) hover around his head like a bad rain cloud whenever the excrement had started to strike the ceiling.

This. Was one such occasion.

"Get up, Lithecore." Artorias breathed out in exhaustion as he towered above the undead, his greatsword which once gleamed against the light now stood marred by scratches and scuffmarks, the sharp edges dulled by nicks and multiple dents no smith would be able to fix without Demonic Titanite.

The prince of the snow-capped kingdom groaned out his displeasure as he managed to prop himself onto his elbows and knees. This duel between himself and the infatuated Wolf Knight had started out in his favour, despite every nerve in his undead body hating the fact that they were forced to do this in the open, surrounded by a plethora of Oolacilean citizens and neighbouring visitors (and how could he _ever_ forget that feminine god who thought he belched rainbows?).

Lithecore had gained the upper hand at the start of the fight, taking the master great swordsman by surprise with his unorthodox use of various weaponry a select few would only fling around. And although his streak for evading the quick and concurrent strokes of Artorias had been his greatest aide in annoying the knight and breaking his focus, the downside was that despite being undead, even _his_ stamina reserves had depleted when it came time for the deciding blow.

Noticing his blunder, Artorias had used such a crutch to his advantage, leaving the heir for absolutely no room to regain his breath or his footing, leading to a sudden shift in the tide of their battle. Lithecore had cussed and attempted to create a strategy capable of at least winding the ten-foot brute so that some distance could be made. But, yet again, his plans had been foiled by the resilience of the Abysswalker before him – thus the reason Lithecore was grunting against the floor, looking like a complete fool in the face of the _one_ person he wanted to show up the most.

"How long are you going to continue holding back?" Artorias scoffed as he wiped his mouth with the cloth of his cowl. Whether he found the undeads existence in this world profane or not, he had to admit that their first round of blows had been extraordinary.

He had only expected the heir to put up a decent bite to go with his unending bark, but he would have never expected such a unique style of combat from a person who preferred to dabble in espionage and politics. And whilst one could argue that any descendants of Archbishop Havel would be primed and well prepared for battle, Artorias had not thought the Imperious King would have produced an heir of _this_ calibre… and Lithecore had been holding _back_!

Nevertheless, he had been careless in his methods, using nimbleness and speed to outgun his vicious strikes before landing a blow or two against the knight's blind-spots with that assortment of peculiar weaponry he had stashed somewhere on his person. Artorias was surprised the undead had allowed himself to be cornered after his momentary slip-up (considering just how crafty Lithecore was), or perhaps it had been his only move to make since he wasn't offering up much resistance. Either way, one thing was clear: his opponent was more than worthy. So, it was time for him to stop playing with his food.

"Your reluctance offends me." The Wolf Knight taunted as Lithecore stood up and dusted the loincloth covering his greaves.

" _Good_. I was hoping you'd get the message sooner."

Artorias' eye twitched. It was nice to know the foe he had allowed to live up until now could still run his mouth after being forced to eat dirt.

"Does that mean you'll take this seriously?"

"Perhaps when you go _mad_ and lose an _arm_, maybe then."

The Wolf Knight shook his head at Lithecore's reply whilst the undead dabbed the blood on his forehead with his gloved finger. Although he had been brought to his knees and forced into a temporary _dogedza,_ it had been enough to show the heir what he wanted to know.

Whilst he may have led Artorias and the crowd around them emitting inane white noise to believe that he was simply floundering before the Abysswalker, the real purpose of his upturned luck was actually to gauge just what the Knight of Gwyn could do in a one-on-one fight. Additionally, all the taunting, jibes and insults he had hurled at the gullible swordsman prior to them arriving in Oolacile had been to further aggravate Artorias to fight harder. How he enjoyed taking shots at a nobleman's pride. The results always _did_ garner entertaining outcomes, like this sudden burst of confidence the Wolf Knight was exuding like pheromones now that he _assumed_ he had a one-up on the undead.

Cracking his neck, Lithecore dipped his hands into the pouches at his hips, amber eyes glittering as he stared down his foe. Artorias said nothing as he felt the shift in atmosphere, merely adjusting his stance as the grip on his sword tightened. And instead of his usual scowl towards the Ariamis heir, he grinned behind his cowl – the anticipation of what was to come thoroughly exciting him. He knew this wasn't going to be like their first round of blows.

The undead, in turn, sighed out as the roar of the coliseum intensified, he was really starting to question his insanity right now.

Artorias didn't allow the undead time to regain his composure as he dropped down into a low squat and leaped into the air. The clinking of his armour alerted Lithecore to his position as he snapped his wide orange eyes skywards but it was already too late. The Wolf Knight had closed the distance faster than he could react. It was a shame. Artorias had actually begun to enjoy himself for a change.

Above them, upon the second tier of seats closest to the ground, Ciaran clenched a dainty hand against her chest as she watched her companion speed downward with his sword, really to deliver the final blow. Despite the fact that she didn't support this duel – the obvious reason being that it was for her hand – her heart spasmed painfully at the sight of one of her capable suitors about to meet his swift end.

Lithecore was indeed a confident undead, one that had even gone as far to earn the title of 'Chosen' amongst the ranks of his kind, but pitted against the likes of her comrade, the most feared master swordsman in all the world next to Lord Gwyn's firstborn, the odds were stacked against him like great slabs of titanite.

Her mouth opened in a silent plea to whatever god was listening as Artorias' blade neared the heir's temple – praying that despite the circumstance, he would find a way to come out on top. She had no idea why her being wanted to see the cocky undead claim victory, or why she wanted Artorias to lose since both thoughts were a terrible idea. However, the sight of two brave, strong men fighting for her hand and future left a twisting feeling in her gut. She didn't like it, but it was her Lord's decree. With that being said, how could she possibly argue?

Gwyndolin watched her out of the corner of his visor, fingers idly drumming against his sceptre as he saw the Abysswalker intercept the guard of the Ariamis heir. Although the duel had been an interesting one from its genesis, with both parties upping the ante with each second that ticked by, it was quite clear that as of right now, an inevitable end was upon the entire coliseum…

Lithecore eyes widened as he stared at Artorias' shadowed form, blade rushing to meet his skull. Immediately, his hands flashed up from his pouches before he flung two black firebombs toward his descending foe. The Wolf Knight grunted as his armour was struck by hot flames that licked against his protected skin. Despite the close proximity, he was still able to take the brunt of the damage as he plunged his greatsword down, piercing the floor.

_PFFSHK!_

Gwyndolin smirked. An end of round 2, was what he meant to say.

The crowd ceased their jeers and shouts as a cloud of smoke erupted around both men. Artorias blinked behind his cowl, peering through the motes of sand and dust upturned from the force behind his strike. What greeted him was the plain, stone floor, his sword buried almost three quarters through.

Slowly, he lifted his head to see a panting Lithecore six feet away from him, the side of his head slick with blood. The Abysswalker huffed. Well that was just perfect, the undead had screwed with his trajectory with that surprise attack.

Back in the stands, the Darkmoon Lord noticed Ciaran let out a deep breath she hadn't known she had been holding. He smirked to himself yet again. He hadn't been expecting her to be in _his_ corner – not that it was that unexpected. The Lord's Blade was often drawn to the mysterious, and this was no exception. Although, it was clear that she cared for both battling being's, despite her lack of emotional disposition.

"Right then. I'll be taking my leave now." Ciaran turned her face to Gwyndolin as he flicked his sceptre, lighting up a chain of magical runes around his person. "make sure Gough takes the end of this event seriously. I will not be pleased if he embarrasses Anor Londo again with his display of infantile humour when the entire _world_ is watching."

"But my Lord Gwyndolin," Ciaran replied, a flabbergasted look on her face, "Should you not remain here to witness the victor of this duel?"

"And why should I do that?" the god asked with a raised eyebrow, his hand frozen from activating the teleportation circle.

"Because it is customary for divinity to be present during events initiated by the King."

Gwyndolin sighed at that. He wondered why his father had written that law when he himself was usually never present at any such procession – the absence of one Sunbringer at the Darkmoon Lord's last birthday being the most _recent_ example of Gwyn's contradictory law.

"You speak the truth," he mused as he put a hand to his chin. "However, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Which is why Gough will take my place here."

"But why _Gough_, my Lord?"

He understood her shock. The leader of the Giant race was, if anything, the _finest_ example of a shirker. In all actuality, asking him to do anything other than hunt down dragons and carve wooden sculptures was like asking Seath to grow some scales. An impossibility. Gough, whilst a gentleman, was Anor Londo's resident airhead for more than one reason. Evidently, he was just easily distracted, and his lack of formality aided in his ineptitude to take serious matters seriously. When he really thought about it, Anor Londo's best archer would no doubt find a way to mess this up, but Gwyndolin couldn't find a reason to care. He was more interested in the battle regarding Archbishop Havel's second born anyway. And besides, this match was quite predictable in his wise eyes, and _he_ probably knew that as well as he continued to fight for the woman he was attracted to.

The god turned his head back to the pleading gaze of Ciaran, who actually looked cuter in traditional apparel than her usual garb. What a wonder it was that his sister had been correct in that assumption.

The Lord's Blade waited for her prince to give her an answer, thoroughly confused at the prospect of allowing the most carefree individual to represent her Lord when this was _her_ life they were talking about. She composed herself as he proceeded to activate the glowing spell circle around him, confident that it was through the Lord of the Darkmoon's wisdom that her sharp-eyed companion was to take the role of Anor Londo's representative. After all, there had to be a good reason why he would appoint Gough to handle the eventualities of this duel, right?

"I chose him because I felt like it."

The Lord's Blade tripped on the fabric brushing against her ankles. It appeared her assumptions were wrong. Her Lord had left her fate in Gough's hands because he was bored of staying here. She stood up from her fall with her shoulders drooped as Gwyndolin smiled at her and vanished from sight. She was screwed. She just knew it.

"Heh-he-he…" Ciaran curled her lip as a thick and foreign accent reached her ears. And how could she have forgotten that _he_ was also here? Her day was just growing dimmer by the second.

"You have to hand it to that lanky mass of snakes and bath oil," Chester – or _Marvellous_ Chester as most called him – strode silently to her right side, his smiling mask fixated on the two beings battling down below. "He has a way of making things even more hilarious than they already are."

The Lord's Blade scoffed as he laughed at her predicament before turning her face away and crossed her arms. He merely titled his head to the side before giving her a sidelong glance.

"But I must say that he has a good eye for fashion. You look like quite the lady in that outfit… minus the perpetual snarl always plastered to that porcelain face of yours."

She turned to glare at him and he simply let loose another string of deep sniggers. It was no secret that she hated his guts, and he did his best to irk her whenever they were together. That was just how it had been from their first meeting.

As for how the oddly spoken, oddly dressed, and oddly social fellow had managed to find his way to Oolacile, no one knew for certain. According to his account of things, he was dragged back to 'the past' by a monstrous hand – most probably Manus' doing – before settling down in Lordran's neighbouring country as a travelling merchant. When Ciaran and the rest of the Elite Four had come to Oolacile during the spread of the Abyss, he had aided them in the eradication of more than a few corrupted inhabitants, and had even gone as far as to lead a rescue party for Artorias when the knight and his companion Sif had been trapped within the deep Chasm of the Abyss. After the defeat of Manus, Lady Dusk had elected him as her Royal Guard – a title he had laughed at but accepted, nonetheless.

As much of an aide he had been in those days, he had still gotten on terribly with the Lord's Blade. Gough and Ornstein had taken delight in seeing her troubled by his absurd imagination and strange retorts that always seemed to rub her up the wrong way. They had even congratulated the masked jester, stating that he deserved to be immortalised in song for being the only one that could get under her skin faster than Ornstein could smite down a dragon. And of course, Chester had done his _utmost_ to annoy her at any given moment. Frankly, he was lucky his status as Dusk's protector was keeping him from being filleted from the inside out due to his agonising proximity to her.

She really hated him. And he really enjoyed pressing her buttons to the extreme. It was annoying, yet she would endure it. It was the least she could do after Dusk had allowed them to host the battle between Artorias and Lithecore here, after all – even if it was _him_ that had pushed for Lady Dusk to accept.

"So, which one are you hoping will win?" he asked merrily, basking in the low growl she sent his way.

"Is there a reason you chose to infringe on my privacy?"

"Other than making you squirm in anger by plain statements? No, there is no reason I'm here." He replied casually, nodding his head in respect as Lithecore slid under Artorias' legs and stabbed him in the ankle with a dagger.

"Then you should return to you Lady's side instead of bothering me." Ciaran huffed and angled her gold and black gaze downward, taking note of the way the undeads arms displayed an impressive surge of muscle as they tensed beneath that flimsy robe.

"Oh, she's in capable hands. _Gough's_, to be precise." He chuckled when she groaned out before tapping a gloved finger against his bicep. He had been watching the battle commence for some time now. And whilst his duty was to be by Dusk's side at all times, he had already informed her that the thought of becoming a tick was not an idea he fancied – to which she had happily accepted, obviously not liking the sensation of being stifled like every other monarch in this world.

Besides, everyone in the kingdom already knew he was better left to watch from a distance, he was a sniper for a reason, and a damn good one at that. It was reason he had survived so long in this world he had been dragged into. However, if he were to be honest, the monsters in his world had been decidedly _much_ stronger than these paltry forms of muscles and bone. Why, the only foe he truly found a solid match for his skills was Manus, for what other being can truly confess to pulling people put of the fabric of space and time itself due to anger or longing?

The sound of metal clashing caught his focus and Chester looked down once more to see Lithecore and Artorias forcing their blades against one another. He remembered the great Abysswalker all too well the first time he had come to Oolacile. He hadn't said much, but that was because he never had anything to talk about in the first place – only about topics vital to his mission or his comrades. Artorias had been a real treat when he had encountered Chester, doing his best to rattle out information from him whilst simultaneously nursing an injured left arm that hung limply like a drenched weed. It had been fun making him sweat with his unanswered questions, and even more entertaining leading that party of Silver Knights, a giant and a wound-up Lord's Blade into the depths of Manus' domain to rescue his sorry hide – oh, and he dared not forget the mut at his side, who had taken a strange liking to his laughing mask and unique scent.

Chester's gaze lingered on Lithecore as the heir was forced stumbling back. Artorias lined his sword to meet the smaller man's chest but was blinded when his foe kicked a gust of sand into his face.

He raised an intrigued eyebrow before a **susurrus1** of mutterings entered his ears. He turned his masked visage to see the Lord's Blade with both her hands clasped together against her chest – a chest, he remind himself, that was deceptively larger than it appeared – as she murmured out incoherent words of what seemed like prayer. Or were they curses instead? He could never tell with her.

"If it's the heir of Ariamis you're worried about. Don't be."

Ciaran looked up at him in confusion. He didn't blame her. He _never_ tried to comfort her usually. It was a wonder why he was suddenly doing so right now. Perhaps he had gotten soft whilst she was away, the constant smiles and rainbows from Dusk killing his need for snarky sarcasm? Or was it just because he missed their usual banter. He had to admit, things had become _extremely_ quiet since she and her entourage had departed. Quite frankly, he had been bored out of his mind, shooting down birds in his spare time and staring aimlessly at the Blood Echoes still stored within one of his many pockets.

"After all… he _was_ the one to tame that obsidian dragon on a quaint Tuesday morning." The woman seemed to perk up at this and he smiled. It was far better seeing her curious than worrisome. The thoughtful lover thing just didn't suit her.

"Yes," she said nodding to herself. "Lady Dusk had said so before the battle commenced. Did she happen to tell you any more of that story?"

Chester scoffed, leaning his forearms against the banister in front of both of them as the crowd cheered when Artorias landed a solid right hook on Lithecore.

"Please, she didn't need to tell me a thing. I was _there_ when he nearly put the beast down."

Ciaran's eyes widened to the size of gargoyle shields as she heeded his words. "Nearly _killed_ the nefarious **_Kalameet_ **?!"

The Royal Guard nodded once, fingers lacing together as he watched more of the battle. Right boot tip-tapping the floor behind him, his coat fluttering open from the wind to reveal the endless array of knives and weapons resting on his person.

"He had come alone, dressed in covert leather and armed with a single longsword." Chester unclasped his hands to grip an imaginary crossbow. "I watched from afar as he struck down the dragon as if he were playing a game of tag."

Ciaran's eyes shimmered in the warm light around them. She turned back to said undead as he rose to his feet once more, wiping blood from his cut lip with a smile so wide it threatened to split his cheeks in half.

"When it came down to ending the ancient thing's life, he hesitated. Dusk warned him that showing Kalameet mercy was equivalent to saving Primeval Man, but he was adamant. Chose to tame it within the domain it had occupied over the course of a few months. Thereafter, it had flown away with him riding atop its shoulders. He never did come back after that, although he _did_ spread a rumour that some crowned fellow with an odd sword had killed it. Nobody stopped to question it. Who would when a tyrant suddenly dies from unknown causes?"

The Lord's Blade said nothing as Chester returned to watching the match. The more she heard the more she wanted to question the annoying man to her right about him, but she knew he would either withhold the answer from her or just not know them entirely.

She sighed out as she copied his pose, leaning against the frame of the banister, the cool breeze tickling her bare skin as she watched Lithecore and Artorias dance around the coliseum like elegant coryphée's. She wondered just who would win this duel after hearing such ground-breaking truths. The Wolf Knight, who's valour and will had seen him end the tortured life of the twisted Manus? Or the firstborn of Archbishop Havel, who's unknown skills and talent forced the nemesis of Anor Londo to submit and become a trained beast and companion?

She didn't have an answer for that, but what she did know was that whichever one of them won, her heart would _still_ end up breaking for the loser. She felt Chester place a gentle hand on her shoulder, aware of her internal struggle and for once she accepted his brotherly comfort, leaning into his side as she struggled to hold back her anger mixed in with the grief.

Now was one of the times she wished she lacked battle efficiency rather than emotional efficiency. That way, she would have been able to decide which one of them she would have chosen before her Lord had made them face off for the sake of taking her hand in theirs. It felt extremely wrong for them to be engaging in a challenge all for her, an unworthy female covered in the blood of her victims instead of the scent of sweet perfumes. Her rough hands suddenly felt more rugged despite the creams and oils rubbed into her skin, and her body felt less than feminine despite the attractive shawls and coverings wrapped around her lean curves.

"Now, now, enough of that." Chester cooed to her as he brushed a tear from her cheek. She blinked in surprise. How long had she been crying like that? And how could a murderer like her even _manage_ tears with all the harm she had done?

The jester smacked her in the ribs and she gasped, looking up at his hidden face in befuddlement.

"And stop with that mental downgrading. You face looks like it's having a seizure."

His blunt words made her stop her internal berating and she smiled at him through the tears. Before long, her lips opened to elicit a soft chuckle, until her entire being spasmed with laughter as he held her to his side, his grip reassuring and strong.

He was right – as infuriating as it was for _him_ to be correct. She was emotionally lacking, that was true. However, that didn't mean she needed to break down like this. She was stronger than that. And besides, whether the victor was Lithecore or Artorias, it didn't mean the winner was any greater than the loser. The victory just meant that they were worthy enough to have her hand in marriage, not that they _would_ get her hand in marriage – as the cocky undead had reminded her a few nights ago.

She eased up on her grip against the tall guardian of Dusk, and Chester dropped his arm from her waist as he sighed out dramatically.

"Thank Heavens you're alright. Any more of that pathetic bawling and I would have assumed you weren't the real Ciaran." She rolled her eyes at the smile in his voice.

"Thank you, Chester."

"That's _Marvellous_ Chester to you, madam." He corrected, tipping his hat regally before spinning on his heel and walking off. It was about time he got back to guarding that basket case of his Queen anyways. He wasn't up for another one of Elizabeth's rants – one that he would have to go to _outskirts_ of Oolacile to hear since she _still_ couldn't move from the spot she was planted in. It was ironic for a country supposedly advanced in the ways of magic. Then again, the Knights of Mirkwood were also unsurprisingly against his idea to simply _uproot_ the annoying fungi and place her in the Royal Garden. He guessed all that time using magical lifts instead of stairs had made them lazy.

With a wave behind him, he signalled his departure to his favourite Lord's Blade before ending with a signature phrase he _knew_ she hated – especially from him.

"So long."

* * *

"Oh-ho! You, Sir, are surprisingly nimble for your gait." Solaire nodded in respect toward Smough, who had managed to hop out of the way of an incoming Lightning Spear.

"Uhm…" the half-giant said in reply, not quite used to being spoken to so casually – especially in the presence of a stranger. Even so, he was not as confused as to forget his manners and worked up the confidence to reply.

"Thank you…?" he said before sweeping his gold hammer in a wide arc.

"Oh, you are _most_ welcome," Solaire cheered as he rolled backwards from the strike and charged another spear of crackling energy from the hand holding his talisman.

Smough anticipated the move coming and stomped forward, as fast as his weighted armour could allow before tensing up and jumping. The Sun Knight's helm grew dark as Smough's shadow covered his body; hammer raised above his head to turn the Premier of Astora into a flapjack.

Without much need to think about it, Solaire dived forward and broke his fall with a barrel roll, his lightning fading away as his concentration broke. With a spin, he righted himself and drew his sword as his bulky foe crashed into the floor, causing the ground to rumble. It took the being a while to stand on his feet again, so the Sun-Bro took the opportunity to leave two large cuts into the chainmail under his armour before backing away.

The Executioner grunted as he felt his back bleed. This ally of the Ariamis heir was surprisingly strong. He huffed and swung his hammer backward, allowing the momentum to lift his feet from the floor as he stumbled forward. Solaire rolled under the attack and attempted another quick placement of cheap shots when the giant's free hand shot out to punch him back.

The undead didn't see it coming and went tumbling over his boots. Smough rolled his shoulders and slammed his hammer against the ground, lining up his sights for Solaire as he rose to his hands and knees. When the undead finally lifted his bucket helm to look at him, Smough began to run.

The speed he used wasn't particularly fast, but the force behind it after a short build-up of momentum was _tremendous_. The sound of the ornate tiles clicking and clanking against the weight of the hammer sounded loudly in the Throne Room as he raced toward the Astorian.

A thought temporarily crossed his mind about why his Lord had chosen the _Throne Room_ of all places to commence this battle but he quashed it quickly, flicking his weapon up at the last second to smack his foe like a bug.

Unexpectedly, in a shocking display of strength, the knight before him had opted to drop his armaments and run _toward_ the hammer before baring his _shoulder_ into it. Normally, any idiot that would have tried this tactic would have ended up in either two ways: with their bodies broken in a million and one places, or dead, with their bodies broken in a million and one places. However, the Astorian before him had not only taken the brunt of the damage but had also _stopped_ his attack dead in its tracks.

Smough looked down at the Premier of Astora with wide eyes, noting that the undead didn't seem to have broken anything after colliding with his hammer. Was this guy just a really strong idiot or a freaking god in disguise?

" _Damn_. Do you work out?" the Executioner questioned as he attempted to force his hammer forward and knock the undead back. Predictably, the hammer didn't budge an inch.

"I assumed that was fairly obvious, but yes." Solaire replied kindly.

"Huh."

Smough gripped his hammer tighter before tugging it back roughly. The smaller knight was unable to hold on and allowed the weapon to slip from his grasp before leaning over the pick up his sword and shield.

The Executioner flipped the shaft of his weapon to rest the hammer end against the floor. Likewise, Solaire disengaged from his fighting stance to catch a small breather.

"So, how much do you lift?"

"Depends," the Sun Knight replied, tilting his head. "lately, I've found that dead lifting Capra Demons makes for an excellent warm up… before dead lifting _Taurus_ Demons thereafter, that is."

"Hmm, can't argue with that." Smough clapped his gauntlets together in appreciation. Now _this_ guy knew what he was talking about.

At that moment, both knights turned their heads to see Argon comically bouncing off the floor like a stone over water from one of Ornstein's attacks before sliding on his back, stopping just in the centre of both the Executioner and the Sun-Bro.

"Ooh! Gah! Oof! Ahhhh…" the raven-haired undead caught his breath against the floor before his masked gaze found both his comrade and his contender staring down at him nonchalantly.

"Oh dear…" Solaire mumbled as Smough leaned against his hammer. "Are you alright there, Argon?"

"Could you say that _without_ the insincerity for a change?" the undead grumbled as he rose to his feet. Solaire merely shrugged.

"You know as well as I that you're made of stone…" he then tapped a finger to his helm in realisation. "Just like Imperious King Havel!"

Argon groaned, cricking his neck and picking up the straight sword from the floor. "And could you _please_ take this more seriously? This is my potential future we're fighting for, ya' know?"

"Well, if you were strong enough, you wouldn't _need_ to rely on an ally, now would you?"

Both undead turned to stare at Smough.

"Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry. I was just sayin'."

Solaire burst into laughter as Argon sighed out on frustration. The guy _did_ have a good point.

"Oh, I wouldn't start doubting him just yet," the Sun Knight managed to say through jolts of giggles. "Argon here is _plenty_ strong. Why, he only invited me here for one purpose."

"Yeah? What's that?" Smough cocked a brow from behind his helmet.

Solaire simply pointed behind Argon with his sword.

"To meet him."

Ornstein dashed forward with deadly accuracy; spear primed to sever Argon's spinal cord. Fortunately, the undead twisted his body backwards as if he were playing a game of limbo, narrowly missing the lighting fast jab.

The lion knight clicked his tongue before twirling his weapon and lifting it above his head, attempting to impale the heir through the chest.

Argon noticed the swift change in technique and fell onto his back before rolling to the side. The shining white end of the spear whined against the clean tiles as it was robbed of tasting flesh.

"Smough, we're in the presence of His Majesty." The Sliver Knight Commander said with a sigh. "Try to take this more seriously."

"Yes _mom_." The Executioner replied dryly before pushing off the shaft of his hammer and grabbing the end of it.

Ornstein shook his head. He could be so childish at the most important of times. Perhaps all that time spent playing chess with Gough had made him more mischievous than he originally assumed.

"Argon, I think I'd like to swap out now." Solaire commented as he dusted lint off from the Ariamis heir's coat.

"If you say so. And I was just getting warmed up." The undead muttered before he and the Sun Knight walked past one another to face different opponents. Their foes didn't seem to mind in the slightest as Ornstein couched into a lower stance and Smough decided to two-hand his mighty face-smasher.

Argon cleared his throat before the sword in his hand vanished into thin air. At this, his shiny juggernaut seemed to grow confused by such an action.

"You thinking of taking me on bare handed?" the half-giant enquired.

"Hell no. I just needed a change of weapon is all."

With a flourish of sparkling silver, Argon balanced an ashen club the size of a petrified tree against his shoulder. Or perhaps the best way to put it was that he _was_ balancing a petrified tree against his shoulder. Smough eyed him cautiously. The way he managed to hold onto that thing with one hand despite his smaller size didn't exactly add up. And whilst he knew undead could grow strong enough to rent chunks of rock from the very mountains themselves, it seemed odd that Lady Priscilla's supposed betrothed could carry the weight of such an enormous weapon without even stumbling on his feet.

The Executioner snorted. Then again, he _was_ the son of Archbishop Havel. With information like that to brew on, it wasn't exactly impossible.

"And here I was thinking you were going to be easy." Smough grinned before stomping forward. Argon uttered a bark of laughter in reply before mimicking him.

The Executioner raised his hammer above his head as the undead began to sprint toward him.

"I'm glad I was mistaken."

* * *

"Hmm…"

Toward the back of the Throne Room, Gwyn hummed to himself as he rubbed his white beard. So far, Havel's youngest was proving to be a good sport; and the fact that he or his companion hadn't been revived at the bonfire above him where Imperious King Havel stood peering over the balcony was impressive enough. If he and his companion managed to survive another round of Ornstein and Smough's roughhousing, he wouldn't _need_ the boy to win to know that he was worthy enough to marry his granddaughter.

Then again, he hadn't seen action like this in _eons_. And he couldn't risk sparing with Nito like he used to when the Age of Fire was just beginning, one of his bolts might accidentally fly to another country and obliterate a human kingdom. Then things would really start going south.

The god was about to get comfy in his seat when he felt magic prickling against his skin. He frowned, noticing the source that cast it before turning to his right and seeing Gwyndolin materialise in front of his vacant seat.

"Brother!" Gwynevere shouted in joy next to Gwyn as she continued to sandwich Seath's arm in her ample cleavage. The paledrake was still in his human form and was regretting ever leaving his domain as Gwynevere squeezed his arm against her chest. Despite how soft and warm it _might_ have appeared; he was actually in complete agony. The reason: her manly strength that rivalled the bloody giants themselves – her father's genes, no doubt. He cussed as he forced magic to line his bones and muscle, who would have known the woman's grasp was tighter than her gaping twa-

"Uncle!"

His thoughts were interrupted by his daughter, who stood from her seat beside her mother to run up to Gwyndolin and hug him around the waist. He gently petted his niece on the head as he and Gwyn stared at one another.

"You're back earlier than expected." The Sunbringer commented. "Is Artorias' match over already?"

"It will be very soon," the crossbreed let go of the god and he sat down next to his father, "predictably, you were wrong again."

Gwyn groaned as Priscilla looked between her grandfather and her uncle in confusion.

"Just perfect. Another million souls lost. Are you certain you're not cheating, Gwyndolin? Because I _will_ find out if you are."

The god of the Darkmoon scoffed, waving his fingers in the air. Almost casually, Priscilla's seat began to levitate from Seath's side before hovering around to land just next to Gwyndolin. Priscilla gazed at the action with furrowed brows before he answered.

"You can sit by me whilst your parents cosy up to one another, even if it _is_ an eyesore." He said with a small smile and the paledrake hissed loudly in displeasure. Why had he allowed his urges to get the best of him a few night's prior? He had forgotten that when his wife was sufficiently pleased, she became a curvaceous tick that just never let go the next morning.

The crossbreed flushed red at his meaning before planting her rear down next to her uncle, eyes once again focused on Argon as he back peddled one of Smough's strikes before slamming his monstrous hammer down against his shiny shoulder, making the Executioner stumble.

As much as it was exciting to watch the love of her life fighting for her hand, it was simultaneously embarrassing to do so whilst the rest of her family observed next to her, muttering out occasional comments about how the undeads performance was.

"Fifty souls the boy's next move will be to block." Gwyn said as he leaned toward his son, gaze still fixed on Argon.

"Hmph. If you're attempting to win back your earnings, why not barter with larger quantities? It's the only way I'll co-operate."

The Lord of Sunlight threw his lastborn an incredulous look. "Just how broke are you trying to make me, boy?!"

His son merely chuckled before raising up a dainty hand holding a large cluster of soul orbs.

"Twenty-thousand says Argon will counter."

Gwyn grumbled but agreed all the same. Priscilla merely gave them both a deadpan stare. The fate of her betrothed rests in the balance and they opt to gamble over the events? How shallow the gods have truly become.

Smough spun around madly with his hammer out as he approached Argon, attempting to snag an arm or leg to at least cripple his overly limber foe. Unfortunately, for the half-giant, Argon just happened to be thinking the exact same thing as he held out his Demon Hammer before spinning around in the opposite direction.

The crowd standing in the Great Hall cheered as Gwyn and Gwyndolin leaned forward in their thrones as a swirling mass of gold and grey collided, their hammers clapping against one another that created a shockwave. Both opponents were sent back a few feet due to the abrupt stop in momentum before getting back up and lifting their enormous weapons in their respective grasps.

"I believe I was right… again." Gwyndolin said absently as Gwyn grimaced. Although his son was a master of illusions and sorcery, the brat had a sharp eye for reading people's movements. He briefly wondered where he had acquired that trait from. It certainly wasn't from him, and there was no was Velka would have the brains for such advanced deduction. Either way… it didn't matter. He had still lost _another_ bet. Perhaps it was time he gave his losing streak a rest?

Grudgingly, the Sunbringer slapped a large soulmass of one million, twenty-thousand souls into his son's hand before folding his arms and grunting. That would be the last time he betted against Gwyndolin. He swore it on his promise to the Pygmies! Speaking of which, he hadn't visited Filianore for a while now. He knew she had fallen in love and asked to be the gift to one of the Pygmy Lord's but that didn't mean he couldn't drop by and see his dark-eyed and silent little girl, even if she _was_ living at the edge of the world.

With a nod, he reaffirmed his decision and grinned. That was it, after the ritual combat before him had concluded and Priscilla possibly married this Lithecore look-alike, they would all go on a road-trip to see Filianore. He chuckled softly to himself, he could just see it now, the look on her face when the entire family (as well as more than half of his knights) arrived in the Ringer City to visit her. The last time he was there, he recalled her carrying some funny looking egg everywhere she went. He wondered what that was all about?

However, as if fate wanted to be a cruel bastard like always, he and rest of the beings residing within the castle suddenly heard the crackling of thunder. Gwyn frowned. It was perfectly cloudless outside earlier this morning. There was no way rain could have come _this_ quickly.

Before long, the sound of great wind rushing through the open doors of his castle blew through halls, ruffling his beard and eyebrows as he blinked. They had also never had wind like that before. What the Frampt was going on?

Meanwhile, Seath sniffed the air before hissing dangerously, his body tensing up as his blind eyes swept back and forth. Gwynevere, noticing his sudden unease, raised a hand to gently cup his cheek.

"Whatever is the matter, my love?"

The dragon turned his head to the goddess before baring sharp fangs. She seemed to understand his unease before letting go of his arm. Immediately, he rose to his feet, catching the other two god's attention when he began to stride forward. He knew the sensation of such wind anywhere for he felt it when he was airborne. He recognised that trepidation fairly well since he was once such creature to _bring_ that mystery with him wherever he went. But most importantly, he knew that _scent_ perfectly well, whether the thick clouds in the sky attempted to hide it or not. Either way, only one thing was clear after this realisation: Seath was _pissed._ **_Off._ **

Gwyndolin looked toward his father and sister as if to ask what was it that seemed to anger the Duke. Gwynevere simply replied with a shake of her head. The Darkmoon Lord needed no further explanation as he too rose and summoned his sceptre to materialise in his open hand. Whatever it was that had the Duke on edge, it warranted his attention as both prince of the Shining City and the protector of its walls.

Above the lot of them, Imperious King Havel leaned against the banister on the upper floor with a tense look on his face. It had certainly been a long, _long_ time since he had come into contact with a force that could antagonise his nemesis. Honestly, he couldn't tell which was worse at this very moment: the fact that such an event had to happen in the middle of one of his son's important days, or the fact that he knew just _what_ entity lay behind the throngs of rainclouds and fierce lightning that penetrated the skies with its might.

Without wasting further time on his thoughts, he rushed toward one of the nearby lifts – albeit hesitantly – before descending to the ground floor where Gwyn stood confused. The Ariamis King felt his own heart squeeze tightly in his chest as he watched his old comrade flounder about in absolute disorientation. If his hunch was right – which is always was – the Lord of Sunlight might in for the shock of his life… if his legendary anger didn't obliterate the entire castle from the foundations, that is.

* * *

"Oi, did you feel that too?" Argon asked as his Demon Hammer clashed with Smough's golden whack-a-mole mallet. The half-giant paused for a moment before disengaging with the undead to turn his head toward the Great Hall.

As far as the civilians went, they had been cordoned off to stand within the wings of the hall, positioned and on constant vigil by the Silver Knights lining the entryway alongside the occasional Sentinel. He and Ornstein had purposefully placed them in this manner so that any fanatic's couldn't potentially rush into their battle and get themselves skewered or pummelled whilst the four of them hashed it out – there were a _lot_ of over-enthusiastic individuals out there ever since that time Ornstein had lost a bet to Gough and had to be on the cover of a men's swimsuit catalogue.

So, the only option they had seen as plausible was to erect massive magical screens that constantly monitored their fight so as to divert potential run-aways from crossing in the line of fire.

With that in place, it had created quite an open space for all participants of said ritual combat to perceive not only the Throne Room, but the entrance of the Great Hall as well. Said Great Hall gave them a perfect view of the exterior of the castle – most importantly the sky… which had spontaneously been doused in heavy rainclouds.

"Huh, I didn't know it was going to rain today." The Executioner mentioned to no one in particular as he lifted his hammer and aimed for Argon's head.

"That's because it wasn't, thus prompting me to ask my question." The undead grunted from the force behind Smough's overhead smash. It was surprising he could move so effortlessly in such heavy armour after they had been at this for more than half an hour. "I still think something's up, though." He pressed.

"And I think you're playing for time." Smough swept his hammer around himself, forcing the undead back a few steps. "the weather here is as unpredictable as Lady Gwynevere during heat."

Argon frowned behind his mask. "Should you really be saying that stuff in front of every god here?"

He earned a shrug for his troubles from the Executioner. "She craves the Duke like a rabbit in season. I ain't gonna sugar-coat it."

"True, but maybe you could be a little more subtle."

"Why? It's not like Seath's gonna pop up behind me when I least expec- Gah!" the half-giant nearly dropped his hammer onto his foot at the sudden appearance of a humanoid Duke striding past him without a care as to what the Executioner was implying, although the furious growl on his face _did_ make Smough want to wet himself a tad.

Both him and Argon watched in silence as the dragon crossed half of the expansive room in less than a minute, his bare feet slapping the floor in a solid tempo – tails flowing behind him like the ends of an extravagant gown.

His unseeing blue eyes focused on the Great Hall as he reached the foot of the stairs before ducking as a yelping Solaire was thrown with monstrous force to tumble down the flight of treads ahead of the Duke. The Sun Knight rubbed his helm where he knew a bruise would most likely be forming before his gaze found Seath descending the stairs with his hands curled into tight fists. The Sun-Bro titled his head to side in confusion before the crackle of thunder caught his attention and his curiosity.

Meanwhile, Ornstein was about to let loose a jolt of golden lightning from his spear to catch the Astorian in the stomach when a hand was placed gently upon his pauldron. He turned his helm and noticed Gwyndolin standing next to him, his mouth set into a thin line.

"My Lord?" he questioned and was answered with a slender finger being raised.

"Something is off. Halt the battle for now." Gwyndolin commanded before he waved his sceptre and teleported, appearing right next to an irate Seath in the centre of the Great Hall. The crowd flogging the wings and upper floors created a chorus of hushed whispering as they attempted to figure out what exactly was going on, whilst Argon, Solaire, Ornstein and Smough decided to join the Paledrake and the Darkmoon Lord – Havel and Gwyn hot on their tails with Priscilla and Gwynevere in tow.

Up near the rafters of the Great Hall, Richter balanced on a beam next to a pair of elite Painting Guardians as he signalled to the Silver Knight Archers to stand by. He didn't know what was going on either, but the foreboding of what was to come let danger signals flashing in his head as he felt the atmosphere drastically change.

Argon removed his mask and placed his Demon Hammer back into his bottomless box. His instincts were right, something was _definitely_ wrong, and now the shift in temperature and premature cyclones swirling into the sky proved it. The only issue he honestly had with all that was that it happened when _he_ happened to be in town, as if some supernatural force just deemed him to be present during every and _any_ ominous occurrence.

He sweat dropped. He really hated the fact that he was the main character of this story.

The sound of fabric being ruffled by the wind entered his ears; however, it was exponentially louder than what it _should_ have sounded like. When he focused on it more intently, he began to realise that it actually wasn't fabric, but more like an object moving in the air. A very large object. With a steady rhythm to it… like wings flapping in the air.

Yes, wings… wings… the undead frowned deeply, his amber eyes zipping around the room as Seath's growl became a concurrent chant of Draconic before they widened.

"Dragons."

Havel and Gwyn turned to look at him as if a giant maggot had just sprouted out of his head.

"Poppycock," Smough snorted, "Dragon's haven't been around since, well… since Lord Gwyn and the other Lord's iced 'em. And even if some did survive Allfather Lloyd would have snuffed them out back in the day when he was ploughing hollowed undead like grain in the field."

"How would you explain the steady flapping in the air then?" Solaire countered, pointing to the sky before all of them. "Forgive me if I'm wrong but it _does_ sound very Dragon-like."

"It's most likely some oversized Wyvern or something." The Executioner yawned out. "We've been having to put down a lot of them, like that annoying Hellkite that couldn't stop crapping over the bridge in the Lower Burg. Freaking lizards." He clicked his tongue as the flapping grew louder, as if it was nearing the castle itself.

"I thought you guys put up a 'no flying' law in Anor Londo. I mean you prevented us from coming into the city on our Drakes." Argon argued.

"And it'll remain a law of mine until the world ends!" Gwyn grunted behind him as he crossed his arms and glared up at the foggy sky. "Whatever shmuck thinks he can ignore my decree and ruin the engagement ritual of my granddaughter can expect a might bolt to the face when they land on whatever flying reptile they _dared_ bring into my hallowed halls."

As if to punctuate his words, a bright flash of white lightning slammed into the ground before the doors of the castle, making Argon jump back in shock before chuckling nervously. Gwynevere as a mother-in-law, he could handle. His father's nemesis as his family, he would manage somehow. But Gwyn as his relative? Maybe _that_ was asking him for too much?

He peered at the intense swirl of clouds and fog that happened to be permeating the air, blocking everything from masonry to wing-bat demons hopping around before the distinct image of something appeared as a dark shadow.

"The hell is that?" Argon exclaimed as the thing began to draw closer. It was definitely some type of winged lizard, he could tell that much just by observing the shadow of the great thing, and it _was_ great in size. The only thing that confused the prince was how it managed to get through the Shining City's impregnable walls and _why_ it was here in the first place.

A few ideas did come to mind for the undead, but he didn't think a monolithic sized creature would come to this sunny part of the world due to migration or to hunt for food. Those primitive days had ended eons ago.

His attentive ears picked up on Gwyndolin's soft gasp and he turned to the god, regarding him with a critical eye before he saw his soft lips mime out a word.

"Brother."

_'Brother?'_ Argon frowned. ' _Since when did Gwyn have another so- oh sweet baby mushrooms.'_

The Ariamis heir looked toward the entrance of the great Hall to see a sight that would have stolen his heart if he hadn't already given it to Priscilla for safe keeping.

From the mass of dense fog, roaring thunder and ominous rainclouds emerged the form of a dragon swathed in blue-grey scales with wings the size of giant metal doors. Upon said creature's back stood a man – or perhaps it would be better to call him a _god_ – dressed in a myriad of scarves, a gold and black breastplate of armour, large pants and sandals, with hair as stark white as the lightning striking the ground beneath them all.

In his right hand resided a tremendous blade – or spear. Quite frankly, the best way to put it was that it looked like a sword-spear, whatever that meant.

As his form began to grow clearer and clearer, the civilians and visitors within the hall began to grow restless, some terrified at the sight of a thought-to-be-extinct dragon flying toward the castle, whilst some released giddy giggles of wonder at the sight of something so magnificent… and terrifying.

The resident gods and nobility standing at the centre of the great Hall all reacted too, albeit in different ways.

Gwyn reacted as Gwyn would always react, with a sputter. Then cough. Then a growl before a huff. And eventually, a frown so great sat upon his face that his element began to crackle around his armour as his rage grew in intensity.

Havel acted like a man in dismay, a hand at his temple as he sighed out like the old King he was. He just couldn't believe more of this crap was happening in fleeting years of his rule. And to think the world had ended its chaos when some wanna-be god had tried to devour little Gwyndolin with his slime-like body.

Gwynevere lit up like the sun itself whilst Priscilla stood there confused and confounded, not quite sure what to make of the sudden turn of events, whilst Smough merely shook his head in annoyance. He just wanted to get something to eat. Was that too much to ask for?

Finally, Seath and Gwyndolin looked at one another before turning back to the incoming dragon. The Duke let out another aggressive snarl whilst his body tensed. He couldn't believe _he_ would have the courage to return after everything that had occurred more than a thousand years ago. But what irked the Paledrake more than the arrival of a rescinded heir to the Throne was the fact that the traitor had brought his _pet_ with him. Seath remembered it all too well, the reason a rift between Sunbringer and War God had been created in the first place.

A recently hatched dragonling. A pitiful orphaned infant without anyone to care what happened to him had been saved by the very being that had struck fear into the hearts of his brethren. And now that disgusting son of Gwyn chose to return riding atop _it_ after the thing had fully grown. Seath would never admit it but witnessing even a reminder of his fallen kin made his lip curl and his magic quiver in anger. Gwyn may have been growing to feel guilty for his actions against the dragon race but _he_ was not. And he would be damned if he allowed the last remnant of his past to resurface after all the had to remove it entirely.

Without giving a warning, the Duke raised a pale hand into the pair, his clawed fingers outstretched as he channelled a concentrated orb of his magic through it, ready to blast the beast before them with hellfire when strong, slender arms wrapped around his middle and hugged him tight from behind.

With a grunt as to the force behind the hug, he turned around and sensed his wife frantically clinging onto him. If he were able to see anything besides the magical aura of things, he would have taken not of the desperation in her eyes.

"Please don't do it, Seath." She said softly, although he heard the firmness in her tone and growled. She was wrong if she thought she could sway him. Whether his feelings for her re-emerged or not, he would _not_ sit back and watch as another dragon walks this world. He had come to Gwyn for a to be the _only_ one alive, after all.

"You are _not_ the same dragon as before." She told him, gripping him tighter as the build-up of magic in his arm struggled to stay in control. Damn her affection for that fool she called her brother.

As he began to let his magic go rampant and release by itself, the sudden stampede of metal footsteps greeted his ears and the rest of them turned to see Richter and a horde of Silver Knight Archers create a straight line, their bows drawn and prepped to fire.

"Lower you weapons!" Gwyndolin shouted out as he saw what was about to occur. Gwyn did a doubletake before he growled and grabbed his son by the shoulder and jerked him around to stare at his visor.

"By Lloyd, boy, have you lost your mind?!" he screamed into his face. The Darkmoon Lord said nothing in reply before the Sunbringer looked back toward the Archer's. "Ignore him. Fire at will!"

It was then that the Lord of Sunlight found a strong hand grip his wrist and squeeze. Gwyn flinched in shock before turning back to see his lastborn glaring at him, the grip on his wrist threatening to snap a bone. Gwyn looked at the magic swirling around the Darkmoon Lord dangerously, tempting him to make another move. It surprised him so much that he couldn't find the strength to speak – merely stare back at the domineering attitude his son was displaying.

**"I _said_…" **Gwyndolin spoke in a low, menacing tone that stopped the Archer's and Seath from releasing their projectiles. Suddenly, the Great Hall had grown very dark in lighting and even the civilians around them had ceased their panic.

**"Lower. Your. _WEAPONS._" **

The Silver Knight's stared between both gods in trepidation before Richter sighed out and signalled for them to disengage. At the same moment, Seath stared blindly at the Darkmoon god before cancelling the spell and lowing his arm. Gwynevere sighed out in relief before hugging him tighter, grateful that he could be reasoned with.

Argon, meanwhile, stared bewildered at everything that was going on next to a stupefied Ornstein and Solaire – the former seeming to shiver in emotion whilst the latter jumped for joy. What had he been thinking expecting a day within Anor Londo to be peaceful?

Before he could stew on the matter, the sound of strong legs touching the ground reached his ears and he turned to find a _massive_ dragon standing at the entrance of the Great Hall's doors whilst the man that had been riding it hopped off with a spring in his step, his golden eyes sparkling like he was the happiest person in the room.

"Keep calm!" he shouted in a young voice as he slung his odd weapon against his shoulder. "Party rock is in the house tonight!"

Argon wanted to sigh out but instead he shook his head. This wasn't the time to be importing lines from another world just to make a grand entrance.

"But first…" he trailed off as his gaze landed on Argon. "You need to die."

All around them watched as the God of War, firstborn of Gwyn, the Nameless King charged his blade with lightning so bright it was blinding, before his body flew towards one uninformed and completely miffed Ariamis heir – who's only thought on the matter was as simple minded as Smough's next meal.

_'Why the hell is it always me?!'_

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**Word bank:**

**1\. Susurrus – **(n.) a low soft sound, as of whispering or muttering or a quiet wind; a whisper or a rustling.

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**Hoho! I am truly sorry for not posting another chapter in more than a month. Just had a _lot_ to do this festive season before I was able to kick back and right something that always makes me smile. **

**Shoutout to Dariory. Thanks so much for liking this fic, even though I don't put as much effort into it as Kingdom Come. It really means a lot. You asked me for a cameo appearance with The Persuer. Unfortunately, although I know about him, I've played more DS 1 and 3 than I have of 2, so I couldn't create a proper personality for him like I could for the Nameless King. I hope this substitute pleases you somewhat, even with the Keep Calm meme.**

**Okay, now for some good news, the next chapter will feature more of the main action between Argon, Lithecore and their respective opponents. I just needed to set the stage really well before I made them fight for their lives (literally).**

**The good news is that I will be posting said chapter sooner than you think. Since I'm taking a break from Kingdom Come due to it being New Years, I'll be posting the next chapter of this fic within the first fortnight of January. Hurrah!**

**Lastly, I'd just like to say thank you to everyone that has read and liked this story so far. I didn't know how this would turn out but I'm happy people like it so I'll do my best to make it end well.**

**And I do _not_ mean I'll be writing a lemon. Seriously, when I said I suck at writing those, I wasn't kidding. So I ain't gonna bother starting now. Besides… Priscilla's too kind to lewd. Gwynevere… now that's a _whole_ other story which I will still not be writing. **

**Anyways, stay safe everyone. God bless and Happy soon-to-be New Years!**


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